BOOKS   BY   MR.   STEDMAN 

PROSE  AND  POETIC  WORKS.  Including  Poems, 
Victorian  Poets,  Poets  of  America,  Nature  and  Elements 
of  Poetry.  4  vols.  uniform,  crown  8vo,  gilt  top,  in  box, 

#7-5°- 

•,    POEMS.     Household  Edition.     With  Portrait  and  Illustra 
tions.      I2mo,  $1.505  full  gilt,  $2.00. 

HAWTHORNE,  AND  OTHER  POEMS.  i6mo, 
$1.25. 

VICTORIAN  POETS.  Revised  and  Enlarged  Edition. 
Crown  8vo,  gilt  top,  $2.25. 

POETS  OF  AMERICA.  A  companion  volume  to  "  Vic 
torian  Poets."  Crown  8vo,  gilt  top,  $2.25. 

THE  NATURE  AND  ELEMENTS  OF  POETRY. 
Crown  8vo,  gilt  top,  $1.50. 

A  VICTORIAN  ANTHOLOGY.  1837-1895.  Selec 
tions  illustrating  the  Editor's  Critical  Review  of  British 
Poetry  in  the  Reign  of  Victoria.  Large  8vo,  gilt  top, 
$2.505  full  gilt,  $3.00. 

POEMS  NOW  FIRST  COLLECTED.  lamo,  gilt  top, 
$1.50. 

AN  AMERICAN  ANTHOLOGY.  Selections  illustrat 
ing  the  Editor's  Critical  Review  of  Poetry  in  America. 
Large  8vo.  (/n  Preparation.} 

HOUGHTON,  MIFFLIN  AND   COMPANY 

BOSTON  AND   NEW  YORK 


POEMS 
NOW  FIRST  COLLECTED 


POEMS 

NOW     FIRST 
COLLECTED:    By 

EDMUND  CLARENCE 
STEDMAN 


BOSTON:  HOUGHTON,  MIFFLIN 
AND    COMPANY:   NEW   YORK 

MDCCCXCVII 


COPYRIGHT    1897 

BY  EDMUND   CLARENCE  STEDMAN 

ALL  RIGHTS  RESERVED 


TO    MY  WIFE 


M202985 


CONTENTS 

I 
VARIOUS    POEMS 

PAGE 

MUSIC  AT  HOME              .....  3 

THE  HAND  OF  LINCOLN      .  5 

NOCTURNE              ......  8 

"  YE  TOMBE  OF  YE   POET  CHAUCER  "  .             .  10 

THE  CONSTANT  HEART            .             .  14 

GUESTS  AT  YULE       .             .             .             .              .  16 

THE  OLD  PICTURE-DEALER    .  .  .  .18 

THE  WORLD  WELL  LOST     ....  22 

HEBE            .......  24 

SOUVENIR  DE  JEUNESSE       ....  30 

A  VIGIL       .......  32 

THE  STAR  BEARER  .                           ...  34 

EVENTIDE               .                                         ...  38 

HELEN  KELLER           .             .  „                      .             .  39 

PORTRAIT  D'UNE  DAME  ESPAGNOLE           .             .  41 

vii 


CONTENTS 

A  SEA-CHANGE,  AT  KELP  ROCK               .             .  43 

HAREBELL              ......  48 

THE  PILGRIMS             .             .             .             .             .  5I 

MORS  BENEFICA                .....  52 

PROEM  TO  A  VICTORIAN  ANTHOLOGY               .  53 
ON    WHITE    CARNATIONS    GIVEN    ME     FOR    MY 

BIRTHDAY        ......  54 

FATHER  JARDINE     .....  55 

FIN  DE  SIECLE      .  .  .  .  .58 


II 

OTHER  SONGS  AND  BALLADS 

FALSTAFF'S  SONG     .....  65 

PROVENCAL  LOVERS     .....      67 
THE  WEDDING-DAY          ....          70 

THE  DUTCH  PATROL  .....    72 

WITCHCRAFT,  I.,  A.  D.  1692   .      .  .      77 

"       II.,  A.  D.  1884     •      •  79 

AARON  BURR'S  WOOING     .             .             .  .               8 1 

COUSIN  LUCRECE              .             .             .             .  .84 

HUNTINGTON  HOUSE            .             .             .  .89 

CENTURIA              .             .             ...  .91 

INSCRIPTIONS              .            .            .            .  .               94 

viii 


CONTENTS 
III 

COMMEMORATIONS 

THE  DEATH  OF  BRYANT         .             .             .  -97 

GIFFORD            ......  103 

CORDA  CONCORDIA         .             .             .             .  .105 

ON  A  GREAT  MAN  WHOSE  MIND  IS  CLOUDING  115 

ON  THE  DEATH  OF  AN  INVINCIBLE  SOLDIER  .       116 

LIBERTY  ENLIGHTENING  THE  WORLD          .  119 

AD  VIGILEM       .         .         .         .         .  .122 

"ERGO  IRIS"          .....  123 

W.  W.          .             .             .             .             .             .  .124 

BYRON  .......  125 

YALE  ODE  FOR  COMMENCEMENT  DAY       .  .       130 

"  UBI  SUNT  QUI  ANTE  NOS  ?  "     .             .             .  132 


IV 
THE   CARIB   SEA 

KENNST  DU  ?                      .              .              .              .  .141 

SARGASSO  WEED         .....  145 

CASTLE  ISLAND  LIGHT              .             .             .  -147 

CHRISTOPHE  .              .              .              .             .              .  153 

ix 


CONTENTS 

LA  SOURCE  .  .  .  .  .  «I55 

TO  L.   H.  S.      .  .  .  .  .  .  159 

JAMAICA  .......       162 

CREOLE  LOVER'S  SONG         .  .  .  .  1 66 

THE  ROSE  AND  THE  JASMINE  .  .  .169 

FERN-LAND     .  .  ..  .  ...  174 

MORGAN    .  .  .  .  .  .181 

CAPTAIN  FRANCISCA  .  .  .  184 

PANAMA    .  .  .  .  .  .190 

MARTINIQUE  IDYL  .  .  .  .  192 

ASTRA  CAELI       ......       196 


V 

ARIEL 

ARIEL    .  .  201 


—  Having  delayed  collecting  my  own  poems  of  recent  years, 
I  now  find  them  so  various  in  theme,  motive,  and  expression  as  to 
render  their  arrangement  a  somewhat  difficult  task.  The  plan  finally 
adopted  seems  as  good  as  any  other.  With  few  exceptions,  the  pieces 
within  each  of  the  general  divisions  are  given  in  the  order  of  their  com 
position  as  shown  by  the  respective  dates.  The  Caribbean  series  has 
been  completed  for  this  volume,  and  much  of  it  appears  for  the  first 
time. 

E.  C.  S. 


Thou,  —  whose  endearing  hand  once  laid  in  sooth 
Upon  thy  follower,  no  want  thenceforth, 
Nor  toil,  nor  joy  and  pain,  nor  waste  of  years 
Filled  with  all  cares  that  deaden  and  subdue, 
Can  make  thee  less  to  him  —  can  make  thee  less 
Than  sovereign  queen,  his  first  liege,  and  his  last 
Remembered  to  the  unconscious  dying  hour,  — 
Return  and  be  thou  kind,  bright  Spirit  of  song, 
Thou  whom  I  yet  loved  most,  loved  most  of  all 
Even  when  I  left  thee  —  /,  now  so  long  strayed 
From  thy  beholding  !      And  renew,  renew 
Thy  gift  to  me  fain  clinging  to  thy  robe  ! 
Still  be  thou  kind,  for  still  thou  wast  most  dear. 

'897 


I 

VARIOUS    POEMS 


MUSIC   AT   HOME 

I  SAT  beneath  a  fragrant  tasselled  tree, 
Whose  trunk  encoiling  vines  had  made  to  be 
A  glossy  fount  of  leafage.     Sweet  the  air, 
Far-off  the  smoke-veiled  city  and  its  care, 
Precious  and  near  the  book  within  my  hand  — 
The  deathless  song  of  that  immortal  land 
Wherefrom  Keats  took  his  young  Endymion 
And    laurelled    bards    enow    their    wreaths    have 

won;  — 

When  from  some  topmost  spray  began  to  chant 
And  flute,  and  trill,  a  warbling  visitant, 
A  cat-bird,  riotous  the  world  above, 
Hasting  to  spend  his  heritage  ere  love 
Should  music  change  to  madness  in  his  throat, 
Leaving  him  naught  but  one  discordant  note. 
And  as  my  home-bred  chorister  outvied 
The  nightingale,  old  England's  lark  beside, 
I  thought  —  What  need  to  borrow  ?     Lustier  clime 
Than  ours  Earth  has  not,  —  nor  her  scroll  a  time 
Ampler  of  human  glory  and  desire 
To  touch  the  plume,  the  brush,  the  lips,  with  fire ; 
3 


M  (JSIC    AT    HOME 

No  sunrise  chant  on  ancient  shore  and  sea, 
Since  sang  the  morning  stars,  more  worth  shall  be 
Than  ours,  once  uttered  from  the  very  heart 
Of  the  glad  race  that  here  shall  act  its  part. 
Blithe  prodigal,  the  rhythm  free  and  strong 
Of  thy  brave  voice  forecasts  our  poet's  song ! 
4 


THE    HAND    OF   LINCOLN 

LOOK  on  this  cast,  and  know  the  hand 

That  bore  a  nation  in  its  hold  : 
From  this  mute  witness  understand 

What  Lincoln  was,  —  how  large  of  mould 


The  man  who  sped  the  woodman's  team, 
And  deepest  sunk  the  ploughman's  share, 

And  pushed  the  laden  raft  astream, 
Of  fate  before  him  unaware. 


This  was  the  hand  that  knew  to  swing 

The  axe  —  since  thus  would  Freedom  train 

Her  son  —  and  made  the  forest  ring, 
And  drove  the  wedge,  and  toiled  amain. 


Firm  hand,  that  loftier  office  took, 
A  conscious  leader's  will  obeyed, 

And,  when  men  sought  his  word  and  look, 
With  steadfast  might  the  gathering  swayed. 
5 


THE    HAND    OF    LINCOLN 

No  courtier's,  toying  with  a  sword, 
Nor  minstrel's,  laid  across  a  lute ; 

A  chief's,  uplifted  to  the  Lord 

When  all  the  kings  of  earth  were  mute ! 


The  hand  of  Anak,  sinewed  strong, 
The  fingers  that  on  greatness  clutch ; 

Yet,  lo  !  the  marks  their  lines  along 
Of  one  who  strove  and  suffered  much. 


For  here  in  knotted  cord  and  vein 
I  trace  the  varying  chart  of  years ; 

I  know  the  troubled  heart,  the  strain, 
The  weight  of  Atlas  —  and  the  tears. 


Again  I  see  the  patient  brow 

That  palm  erewhile  was  wont  to  press ; 
And  now  't  is  furrowed  deep,  and  now 

Made  smooth  with  hope  and  tenderness. 


For  something  of  a  formless  grace 
This  moulded  outline  plays  about; 

A  pitying  flame,  beyond  our  trace, 
Breathes  like  a  spirit,  in  and  out, — 
6 


THE    HAND    OF    LINCOLN 

The  love  that  cast  an  aureole 

Round  one  who,  longer  to  endure, 

Called  mirth  to  ease  his  ceaseless  dole, 
Yet  kept  his  nobler  purpose  sure. 


Lo,  as  I  gaze,  the  statured  man, 

Built  up  from  yon  large  hand,  appears 

A  type  that  Nature  wills  to  plan 
But  once  in  all  a  people's  years. 


What  better  than  this  voiceless  cast 

To  tell  of  such  a  one  as  he, 
Since  through  its  living  semblance  passed 

The  thought  that  bade  a  race  be  free! 
1883 

7 


NOCTURNE 

THE  silent  world  is  sleeping, 
And  spirits  hover  nigh, 

With  downward  pinions  keeping 
Our  love  from  mortal  eye, 

Nor  any  ear  of  Earth  can  hear 
The  heart-beat  and  the  sigh. 


Now  no  more  the  twilight  bird 
Showers  his  triple  notes  around ; 

In  the  dewy  paths  is  heard 
No  rude  footfall's  sound. 

In  the  stillness  I  await 
Thy  coming  late, 

In  the  dusk  would  lay  my  heart 
Close  to  thine  own,  and  say  how  dear  thou  art ! 


O  life  !     O  rarest  hour  ! 

When  the  dark  world  onward  rolls, 
And  the  fiery  planets  drift, 

Then  from  our  commingled  souls 
8 


NOCTURNE 


Clouds  of  passion  and  of  power, 
Flames  of  incense,  lift ! 


Come,  for  the  world  is  turning 

To  meet  the  morning  star ! 
Answer  my  spirit's  yearning 

And  seek  the  arms  that  call  thee  from  afar 
Let  them  close  —  ah,  let  them  close 
Around  thee  now,  and  lure  thee  to  repose. 
1878 

9 


«YE  TOMBE  OF  YE  POET  CHAUCER" 

ABBOT  and  monks  of  Westminster 

Here  placed  his  tomb,  in  all  men's  view. 
"  Our  Chaucer  dead  ?  "  —  King  Harry  said, — 
"  A  mass  for  him,  and  burial  due  !  " 
This  very  aisle  his  footsteps  knew ; 
Here  Gower's  benediction  fell, — 

Brother  thou  were  and  minstral  trewe ; 
Now  slepe  thou  wel. 


There  died  with  that  old  century's  death, 

I  wot,  five  hundred  years  ago, 
One  whose  blithe  heart,  whose  morning  art, 

Made  England's  Castaly  to  flow. 

He  in  whose  song  that  fount  we  know, 
With  every  tale  the  skylarks  tell, 

Had  right,  Saint  Bennet's  wall  below 
To  slumber  well. 


Eftsoons  his  master  piously 

In  Surrey  hied  him  to  his  rest ; 

10 


"YE    TOMBE    OF 

The  Thames,  between  their  closes  green, 
Parted  these  warblers  breast  from  breast, — 
The  gravest  from  the  joyfulest 

Whose  notes  the  matin  chorus  swell : 
A  league  divided,  east  and  west, 
They  slumber  well. 


Is  there  no  care  in  holy  ground 

The  world's  deep  undertone  to  hear  ? 
Can  this  strong  sleep  our  Chaucer  keep 

When  May-time  buds  and  blossoms  peer  ? 

Less  strange  that  many  a  sceptred  year, 
While  the  twin  houses  towered  and  fell, 

Alike  through  England's  pride  and  fear, 
He  slumbered  well. 


The  envious  Roses  woefully 

By  turns  a  bleeding  kingdom  sway ; 
Thrones  topple  down,  —  to  robe  and  crown 
Who  comes  at  last  must  hew  his  way. 
No  sound  of  all  that  piteous  fray, 
Nor  of  its  ceasing,  breaks  the  spell ; 
Still  on,  to  great  Eliza's  day, 
He  slumbers  well. 
1 1 


UYE  TOMBE  OF  YE  POET  CHAUCER 

Methinks,  had  Shakespeare  lightly  walked 

Anear  him  in  the  minster  old, 
He  would  have  heard,  —  his  sleep  had  stirred 

With  dreams  of  wonders  manifold  ; 

Even  though  no  sad  vibration  told 
His  ear  when  sounded  Mary's  knell, — 

Though,  when  the  mask  on  Charles  laid  hold, 
He  slumbered  well. 


In  climes  beyond  his  calendar 

The  latest  century's  splendors  grow ; 
London  is  great,  —  the  Abbey's  state 

A  young  world's  eager  wanderers  know ; 

New  songs,  new  minstrels,  come  and  go 
Naught  as  of  old  outside  his  cell,  — 

Just  as  of  old,  within  it  low, 
He  slumbers  well. 


And  now,  when  hawthorn  is  in  flower, 

And  throstles  sing  as  once  sang  he, 
In  this  last  age,  on  pilgrimage 

Like  mine  from  lands  that  distant  be, 
Come  youths  and  maidens,  summer-free, 
Where  shades  of  bards  and  warriors  dwell, 
And  say,  "  The  sire  of  minstrelsy 
Here  slumbers  well ;  " 
12 


And  say,  "  While  London's  Abbey  stands 

No  less  shall  England's  strength  endure  !  " 
Ay,  though  its  old  wall  crumbling  fall, 
Shall  last  her  song's  sweet  overture; 
Some  purling  stream  shall  flow,  be  sure, 
From  out  the  ivied  heap,  to  tell 

That  here  the  fount  of  English  pure 
Long  slumbered  well. 
1879 

13 


THE   CONSTANT   HEART 

SADDE  songe  is  out  of  season 

When  birdes  and  lovers  mate, 
When  soule  to  soule  must  paye  swete  toll 

And  fate  be  joyned  with  fate  ; 
Sadde  songe  and  wofull  thought  controle 

This  constant  heart  of  myne, 
And  make  newe  love  a  treason 

Unto  my  Valentine. 


How  shall  my  wan  lippes  utter 

Their  summons  to  the  dedde,  — 
Where  nowe  repeate  the  promise  swete, 

So  farre  my  love  hath  fledd  ? 
My  onely  love !     What  musicke  fleet 

Shall  crosse  the  walle  that  barres  ? 
To  earthe  the  burthen  mutter, 

Or  singe  it  to  the  Starrs  ? 


Perchance  she  dwelles  a  spirite 
In  beautye  undestroyed 
H 


THE    CONSTANT    HEART 

Where  brightest  Starrs  are  closely  sett 
Farre  out  beyonde  the  voyd ; 

If  Margaret  be  risen  yet 

Her  looke  will  hither  turne, 

I  knowe  that  she  will  heare  it, 
And  all  my  trewe  heart  learne. 


But  if  no  resurrection 

Unseale  her  dwellinge  low, 
If  one  so  fayre  must  bide  her  there 

Until  the  trumpe  shall  blowe, 
Nathlesse  shall  Love  outvie  Despaire, 

(Whilst  constant  heart  is  myne) 
And,  robbed  of  her  perfection, 

Be  faithfull  to  her  shrine. 


At  this  blythe  season  bending 

He  whisper  to  the  clodde, 
To  the  chill  grasse  where  shadowes  passe 

And  leaflesse  branches  nodde ; 
There  keepe  my  watche,  and  crye  —  Alas 

That  Love  may  not  forget, 
That  Joye  must  have  swifte  ending 

And  Life  be  laggard  yet ! 

1882 


GUESTS   AT   YULE 


Noel!   Noel! 
Thus  sounds  each  Christmas  bell 

Across  the  winter  snow. 
But  what  are  the  little  footprints  all 
That  mark  the  path  from  the  church-yard  wall  ? 
They  are  those  of  the  children  waked  to-night 
From  sleep  by  the  Christmas  bells  and  light : 
Ring  sweetly,  chimes  !      Soft,  soft,  my  rhymes  ! 
Their  beds  are  under  the  snow. 


Noel!  Noel! 
Carols  each  Christmas  bell. 

What  are  the  wraiths  of  mist 
That  gather  anear  the  window-pane 
Where  the  winter  frost  all  day  has  lain  ? 
They  are  soulless  elves,  who  fain  would  peer 
Within,  and  laugh  at  our  Christmas  cheer  : 

Ring  fleetly,  chimes  !     Swift,  swift,  my  rhymes  ! 
They  are  made  of  the  mocking  mist. 
16 


GUESTS    AT    YULE 

Noel!   Noel! 
Cease,  cease,  each  Christmas  bell  ! 

Under  the  holly  bough, 

Where  the  happy  children  throng  and  shout, 
What  shadow  seems  to  flit  about  ? 
Is  it  the  mother,  then,  who  died 
Ere  the  greens  were  sere  last  Christmas-tide  ? 
Hush,    falling    chimes  !        Cease,    cease,    my 

rhymes  ! 

The  guests  are  gathered  now. 
1882 


THE   OLD    PICTURE-DEALER 


THE  second  landing-place.     Above, 

Sun-pictures  for  a  shilling  each. 
Below,  a  haunt  that  Teutons  love, — 

Beer,  smoke  and  pretzels  all  in  reach. 
Between  the  two,  a  mouldy  nook 

Where  loungers  hunt  for  things  of  worth 
Engraving,  curio,  or  book  — 

Here  drifted  from  all  over  Earth. 


Be  the  day's  traffic  more  or  less, 

Old  Brian  seeks  his  Leyden  chair 
Placed  in  the  ante-room's  recess, 

Our  connoisseur's  securest  lair : 
Here,  turning  full  the  burner's  rays, 

Holds  long  his  treasure-trove  in  sight, 
Upon  a  painting  sets  his  gaze 

Like  some  devoted  eremite. 


The  book-worms  rummage  as  they  will, 
Loud  roars  the  wonted  Broadway  din, 
18 


THE    OLD    PICTURE-DEALER 

Life  runs  its  hackneyed  round,  —  but  still 
One  tireless  boon  can  Brian  win, — 

Can  picture  in  this  modern  time 

A  life  no  more  the  world  shall  know, 

And  dream  of  Beauty  at  her  prime 
In  Parma,  with  Correggio. 


Withered  the  dealer's  face,  and  old, 

But  wearing  yet  the  first  surprise 
Of  him  whose  eyes  the  light  behold 

Of  Italy  and  Paradise  : 
Forever  blest,  forever  young, 

The  rapt  Madonna  poises  there, 
Her  praise  by  hovering  cherubs  sung, 

Her  robes  by  ether  buoyed,  not  air. 


See  from  the  graybeard's  meerschaum  float 

A  cloud  of  incense  !     Day  or  night, 
He  needs  must  steal  apart  to  note 

Her  grace,  her  consecrating  light. 
With  less  ecstatic  worship  lay, 

Before  his  marble  goddess  prone, 
The  crippled  poet,  that  last  day 

When  in  the  Louvre  he  made  his  moan. 
19 


THE    OLD    PICTURE-DEALER 

Warm  grows  the  radiant  masterpiece, 

The  sweetness  of  Correggio  ! 
The  visionary  hues  increase, 

Angelic  lustres  come  and  go ; 
And  still,  as  still  in  Parma  too,  — 

In  Rome,  Bologna,  Florence,  all, — 
Goes  on  the  outer  world's  ado, 

Life's  transitory,  harsh  recall. 


A  real  Correggio  ?     And  here  ! 

Yes,  to  the  one  impassioned  heart, 
Transfiguring  all,  the  strokes  appear 

That  mark  the  perfect  master's  art. 
You  question  of  the  proof  ?     You  owe 

More  faith  to  fact  than  fancy  ?      Hush  ! 
Look  with  expectant  eyes,  and  know, 

With  him,  the  hand  that  held  the  brush ! 


The  same  wild  thought  that  warmed  from  stone 

The  Venus  of  the  monkish  Gest, 
The  image  of  Pygmalion, 

Here  finds  Correggio  confest. 
And  Art  requires  its  votary  : 

The  Queen  of  Heaven  herself  may  pine 
When  these  quaint  rooms  no  longer  see 

The  one  that  knew  her  all  divine. 
20 


THE    OLD    PICTURE-DEALER 

Ah,  me  !  ah  me,  for  centuries  veiled  ! 

(The  desolate  Virgin  then  may  say,) 
Once  more  my  rainbow  tints  are  paled 

With  that  unquestioning  soul  away  — 
Whose  faith  compelled  the  sun,  the  stars, 

To  yield  their  halos  for  my  sake, 
And  saw  through  Time's  obscuring  bars 

The  Parmese  master's  glory  break ! 

1883 

21 


THE   WORLD   WELL   LOST 

THAT  year  ?      Yes,  doubtless  I  remember  still,  — 
Though   why  take   count   of  every   wind   that 

blows  ! 
'T  was   plain,   men   said,   that   Fortune   used  me 

ill 
That  year,  —  the  self-same  year  I  met  with  Rose. 


Crops  failed ;  wealth  took  a  flight ;  house,  treasure, 

land, 
Slipped  from  my  hold  —  thus  plenty  comes  and 

goes. 

One  friend  I  had,  but  he  too  loosed  his  hand 
(Or  was  it  I  ?)  the  year  I  met  with  Rose. 


There  was  a  war,  I  think ;  some  rumor,  too, 
Of  famine,  pestilence,  fire,  deluge,  snows  ; 

Things  went  awry.     My  rivals,  straight  in  view, 
Throve,  spite  of  all ;  but  I,  —  I  met  with  Rose. 
22 


THE    WORLD    WELL    LOST 

That  year  my  white-faced  Alma  pined  and  died  : 
Some    trouble    vexed    her    quiet    heart,  —  who 
knows  ? 

Not  I,  who  scarcely  missed  her  from  my  side, 
Or  aught  else  gone,  the  year  I  met  with  Rose. 


Was  there  no  more  ?     Yes,  that  year  life  began  : 
All  life  before  a  dream,  false  joys,  light  woes,  — 

All  after-life  compressed  within  the  span 

Of  that  one  year,  —  the  year  I  met  with  Rose  ! 
1883 

23 


HEBE 

SEE,  what  a  beauty  !     Half-shut  eyes,  — 

Hide  all  buff,  and  without  a  break 
To  the  tail's  brown  tuft  that  mostly  lies 

So  quiet  one  thinks  her  scarce  awake ; 
But  pass  too  near,  one  step  too  free, 

You  find  her  slumber  a  devil's  truce : 
Up  comes  that  paw,  —  all  plush,  you  see, 

Out  four  claws,  fit  for  Satan's  use. 


'Ware !     Just  a  sleeve's  breadth  closer  then, 

And  your  last  appearance  on  any  stage  ! 
Loll,  if  you  like,  by  Daniel's  Den, 

But  clear  and  away  from  Hebe's  cage :  — 
That 's  Hebe  !   listen  to  that  purr, 

Rumbling  as  from  the  ground  below : 
Strange,  when  the  ring  begins  to  stir, 

The  fleshings  always  vex  her  so. 


You  think  't  were  a  rougher  task  by  far 
To  tame  her  mate  with  the  sooty  mane  ? 
24 


HEBE 


A  splendid  bronze  for  a  showman's  car, 
And  listless  enough  for  bit  and  rein. 

But  Hebe  is — just  like  all  her  sex  — 
Not  good,  then  bad,  —  be  sure  of  that : 

In  either  case  't  would  a  sage  perplex 

To  make  them  out,  both  woman  and  cat. 


A  curious  record,  Hebe's.     Reared 

In  Italy  ;   age,  —  that 's  hard  to  fix  ; 
Trained  from  a  cub,  until  she  feared 

The  lash,  and  learned  her  round  of  tricks ; 
Always  a  traveller,  —  one  of  two 

A  woman-tamer  took  in  hand, 
Whipped  them,  coaxed  them,  —  and  so  they  grew 

To  fawn  or  cower  at  her  command. 


None  but  Fiorina  —  that  was  her  name 

And  this  the  story  of  Hebe  here  — 
Entered  their  cage  ;  the  brutes  were  tame 

As  kittens,  though,  their  mistress  near. 
A  tall,  proud  wench  as  ever  was  seen, 

Supple  and  handsome,  full  of  grace  : 
The  world  would  bow  to  a  real  queen 

That  had  Fiorina's  form  and  face. 
25 


HEBE 

Her  lover  —  for  one  she  had,  of  course  — 

Was  Marco,  acrobat,  circus-star, 
The  lightest  foot  on  a  running  horse, 

The  surest  leap  from  a  swinging  bar ; 
And  she,  —  so  jealous  he  dared  not  touch 

A  woman's  hand,  and,  truth  to  say, 
He  had  no  humor  to  tease  her  much 

Till  a  girl  in  spangles  crossed  their  way. 


'T  was  at  Marseilles,  the  final  scene  : 

This  pretty  rider  joined  the  ring, 
Ma'am'selle  Celeste  or  Victorine, 

And  captured  him  under  Fiorina's  wing. 
They  hid  their  meetings,  but  when,  you  see, 

Doubt  holds  the  candle,  love  will  show, 
And  in  love's  division  the  one  of  three, 

Whose  share  is  lessened,  needs  must  know, 


One  night,  then,  after  the  throng  outpoured 

From  the  show,  and  the  lions  my  Lady's  power 

Had  been  made  to  feel,  with  lash  that  scored 
And  eye  that  cowed  them,  a  snarling  hour ;  — 

(They  were  just  in  the  mood  for  pleasantry 
Of  those  holidays  when  saints  were  thrown 
26 


HEBE 


To  beasts,  and  the  Romans,  entrance-free, 

Clapped    hands;)  —  that    night,    as    she     stood 
alone, 


Fiorina,  Queen  of  the  Lions,  called 

Sir  Marco  toward  her,  while  her  hand 
Still  touched  the  spring  of  a  door  that  walled 

Her  subjects  safe  within  Lion-land. 
He  came  there  panting,  hot  from  the  ring, 

So  brave  a  figure  that  one  might  know 
Among  all  his  tribe  he  must  be  king, — 

If  in  some  wild  tract  you  met  him  so. 


"  Do  you  love  me  still,"  she  asked,  "  as  when 

You  swore  it  first  ?  "     «  Have  never  a  doubt ! " 
"  But  I  have  a  fancy  —  men  are  men, 

And  one  whim  drives  another  out,"  — 
"  What  fancy  ?     Is  this  all .?      Have  done  : 

You  tire  me."     "  Look  you,  Marco  !   oh, 
I  should  die  if  another  woman  won 

Your    love,  —  but    would    kill    you    first,    you 
know !  " 


"  Kill  me  ?  and  how,  —  with  a  jealous  tongue  ?  " 
«  THUS  !  "  quoth  Fiorina,  and  slipped  the  bolt 

27 


HEBE 


Of  the  cage's  door,  and  headlong  flung 
Sir  Marco,  ere  he  could  breathe,  the  dolt ! 

Plump  on  the  lion  he  bounced,  and  fell 
Beyond,  and  Hebe  leapt  for  him  there, — 

No  need  for  their  lady's  voice  to  tell 
The  work  in  hand  for  that  ready  pair. 

They  say  one  would  n't  have  cared  to  see 

The  group  commingled,  man  and  beast, 
Or  to  hear  the  shrieks  and  roars,  —  all  three 

One  red,  the  feasters  and  the  feast ! 
Guns,  pistols,  blazed,  till  the  lion  sprawled, 

Shot  dead,  but  Hebe  held  to  her  prey 
And  drank  his  blood,  while  keepers  bawled 

And  their  hot  irons  made  yon  scars  that  day. 


But  the  woman  ?     True,  I  had  forgot : 

She  never  flinched  at  the  havoc  made, 
Nor  gave  one  cry,  but  there  on  the  spot 

Drove  to  the  heart  her  poniard-blade, 
Straight,  like  a  man,  and  fell,  nor  stirred 

Again  ;  —  so  that  fine  pair  were  dead  ; 
One  lied,  and  the  other  kept  her  word,  — 

And  death  pays  debts,  when  all  is  said. 
28 


HEBE 

So  they  hustled  Hebe  out  of  France, 
To  Spain,  or  may  be  to  England  first. 

Then  hitherward  over  seas,  by  chance, 
She  came  as  you  see  her,  always  athirst, 

As  if,  like  the  tigresses  that  slink 
In  the  village  canes  of  Hindostan, 

Of  one  rare  draught  she  loves  to  think, 

And  ever  to  get  it  must  plan  and  plan. 
1884 

29 


SOUVENIR   DE   JEUNESSE 

WHEN  Sibyl  kept  her  tryst  with  me,  the  harvest 

moon  was  rounded, 
In  evening  hush   through  pathways    lush  with 

fern  we  reached  the  glade ; 
The  rippling  river  soft  and  low  with  fairy  plashes 

sounded, 

The  silver  poplar  rustled  as  we  sat  within  its 
shade. 


"And  why,"    she  whispered,    "evermore    should 

lovers  meet  to  sunder  ? 
Where  stars  arise  in  other  skies  let  other  lips 

than  mine 

Their  sorrows  lisp,  and  other  hearts  at  love's  delay 
ing  wonder  — 

O  stay  !  " —  and  soon  her  tearful  eyes  were  each 
a  pearly  shrine. 

I  soothed  her  fears  and  stayed  her  tears,  her  hands 
in  mine  enfolding, 
3° 


SOUVENIR    DE    JEUNESSE 

And  then  we  cared  no  more  for  aught  save  this 

one  hour  we  had  ; 
Upwelled  that  dreamful  selfish  tide  of  young  Love's 

rapture,  holding 

The  fair  round  world  itself  in  pledge  to  make 
us  still  more  glad. 

$ 

For  us  the  night  was  musical,  for  us  the  meadows 

shining ; 
The  summer    air  was  odorous    that  we  might 

breathe  and  love ; 

Sweet  Nature  throbbed  for  us  alone  —  her  mother- 
soul  divining 

No  fonder  pair  that  fleeting  hour  her  zephyrs 
sighed  above. 


Amid  the  nodding  rushes  the  heron  drank  his  tip 
ple, 
The  night-hawk's  cry  and  whir  anigh  a  deeper 

stillness  made, 
A  thousand  little  starlights  danced  upon  the  river's 

ripple, 
And  the  silver  poplar  rustled  as  we  kissed  within 

its  shade. 
1884 


A  VIGIL 

I  WALK  the  lane's  dim  hollow,  — 
Past  is  the  twilight  hour, 

But  stealthy  shadows  follow 

And  Night  withholds  her  power, 
For  somewhere  in  the  eastern  sky 

The  shrouded  moon  is  high. 


Dews  from  the  wild  rose  drip  unheard,  — 
Their  unforgotten  scent 

With  that  of  woods  and  grasses  blent ; 
No  muffled  flight  of  bird, 

No  whispering  voice,  my  footfall  stops ; 

No  breeze  amid  the  poplar-tops 

The  smallest  leaf  has  stirred. 


Yet  round  me,  here  and  there, 

A  little  fluttering  wind 
Plays  now,  —  these  senses  have  divined 

A  breath  across  my  hair, — 
A  touch,  —  that  on  my  forehead  lies, 
32 


A    VIGIL 


And  presses  long 
These  lips  so  mute  of  song, 
And  now,  with  kisses  cool,  my  half-shut  eyes. 


This  night  ?      O  what  is  here  ! 

What  viewless  aura  clings 
So  fitfully,  so  near, 
On  this  returning  eventide 
When  Memory  will  not  be  denied 
Unfettered  wings  ? 


My  arms  reach  out,  —  in  vain, — 

They  fold  the  air  : 

And  yet  —  that  wandering  breath  again  ! 
Too  vague  to  make  her  phantom  plain, 

Too  tender  for  despair. 
1884 

33 


THE   STAR   BEARER 

THERE  were  seven  angels  erst  that  spanned 

Heaven's  roadway  out  through  space, 
Lighting  with  stars,  by  God's  command, 

The  fringe  of  that  high  place 
Whence  plumed  beings  in  their  joy, 
The  servitors  His  thoughts  employ, 
Fly  ceaselessly.     No  goodlier  band 
Looked  upward  to  His  face. 


There,  on  bright  hovering  wings  that  tire 

Never,  they  rested  mute, 
Nor  of  far  journeys  had  desire, 

Nor  of  the  deathless  fruit ; 
For  in  and  through  each  angel  soul 
All  waves  of  life  and  knowledge  roll, 
Even  as  to  nadir  streamed  the  fire 
Of  their  torches  resolute. 


They  lighted  Michael's  outpost  through 
Where  fly  the  armored  brood, 
34 


THE    STAR    BEARER 

And  the  wintry  Earth  their  omens  knew 

Of  Spring's  beatitude ; 
Rude  folk,  ere  yet  the  promise  came, 
Gave  to  their  orbs  a  heathen  name, 
Saying  how  steadfast  in  men's  view 
The  watchful  Pleiads  stood. 


All  in  the  solstice  of  the  year, 

When  the  sun  apace  must  turn, 
The  seven  bright  angels  'gan  to  hear 

Heaven's  twin  gates  outward  yearn : 
Forth  with  its  light  and  minstrelsy 
A  lordly  troop  came  speeding  by, 
And  joyed  to  see  each  cresset  sphere 
So  gloriously  burn. 


Staying  his  fearless  passage  then 

The  Captain  of  that  host 
Spake  with  strong  voice :  "  We  bear  to  men 

God's  gift  the  uttermost, 
Whereof  the  oracle  and  sign 
Sibyl  and  sages  may  divine : 

A  star  shall  blazon  in  their  ken, 
Borne  with  us  from  your  post. 
35 


THE    STAR    BEARER 

"  This  night  the  Heir  of  Heaven's  throne 

A  new-born  mortal  lies  ! 
Since  Earth's  first  morning  hath  not  shone 

Such  joy  in  seraph  eyes." 
He  spake.     The  least  in  honor  there 
Answered  with  longing  like  a  prayer,  — 
"  My  star,  albeit  thenceforth  unknown, 
Shall  light  for  you  Earth's  skies." 


Onward  the  blessed  legion  swept, 

That  angel  at  the  head ; 
(Where  seven  of  old  their  station  kept 

There  are  six  that  shine  instead.) 
Straight  hitherward  came  troop  and  star; 
Like  some  celestial  bird  afar 

Into  Earth's  night  the  cohort  leapt 
With  beauteous  wings  outspread. 


Dazzling  the  East  beneath  it  there, 

The  Star  gave  out  its  rays  : 
Right  through  the  still  Judean  air 
The  shepherds  see  it  blaze, — 
They  see  the  plume-borne  heavenly  throng, 
And  hear  a  burst  of  that  high  song 
Of  which  in  Paradise  aware 

Saints  count  their  years  but  days. 
36 


THE    STAR    BEARER 

For  they  sang  such  music  as,  I  deem, 

In  God's  chief  court  of  joys, 
Had  stayed  the  flow  of  the  crystal  stream 

And  made  souls  in  mid-flight  poise ; 
They  sang  of  Glory  to  Him  most  High, 
Of  Peace  on  Earth  abidingly, 

And  of  all  delights  the  which,  men  dream, 
Nor  sin  nor  grief  alloys. 


Breathless  the  kneeling  shepherds  heard, 

Charmed  from  their  first  rude  fear, 
Nor  while  that  music  dwelt  had  stirred 

Were  it  a  month  or  year : 
And  Mary  Mother  drank  its  flow, 
Couched  with  her  Babe  divine,  —  and,  lo  ! 
Ere  falls  the  last  ecstatic  word 
Three  Holy  Kings  draw  near. 


Whenas  the  star-led  shining  train 

Wheeled  from  their  task  complete, 
Skyward  from  over  Bethlehem's  plain 

They  sped  with  rapture  fleet ; 
And  the  angel  of  that  orient  star, 
Thenceforth  where  Heaven's  lordliest  are, 
Stands  with  a  harp,  while  Christ  doth  reign. 

A  seraph  near  His  feet. 
1887  37 


EVENTIDE 

THE  sunset  fires  old  Portsmouth  spires, 

Out  creeps  the  ebbing  tide ; 
Beyond  the  battery-point  I  see 

A  glimmering  schooner  glide ; 
White  flares  the  turning  Whale-back  light, 

The  silent  ground-swell  rolls ; 
Low  and  afar  shines  one  red  star 

Above  the  Isles  of  Shoals. 
1888 

38 


HELEN   KELLER 

MUTE,  sightless  visitant, 
From  what  uncharted  world 
Hast  voyaged  into  Life's  rude  sea, 

With  guidance  scant ; 
As  if  some  bark  mysteriously 
Should  hither  glide,  with  spars  aslant 
And  sails  all  furled  ? 


In  what  perpetual  dawn, 
Child  of  the  spotless  brow, 
Hast  kept  thy  spirit  far  withdrawn  — 

Thy  birthright  undefiled  ? 
What  views  to  thy  sealed  eyes  appear  ? 
What  voices  mayst  thou  hear 
Speak  as  we  know  not  how  ? 
Of  grief  and  sin  hast  thou, 

O  radiant  child, 

Even  thou,  a  share  ?     Can  mortal  taint 
Have  power  on  thee  unfearing 
The  woes  our  sight,  our  hearing, 
Learn  from  Earth's  crime  and  plaint  ? 
39 


HELEN    KELLER 

Not  as  we  see 

Earth,  sky,  insensate  forms,  ourselves, 
Thou  seest,  —  but  vision-free 
Thy  fancy  soars  and  delves, 
Albeit  no  sounds  to  us  relate 
The  wondrous  things 
Thy  brave  imaginings 
Within  their  starry  night  create. 


Pity  thy  unconfined 
Clear  spirit,  whose  enfranchised  eyes 

Use  not  their  grosser  sense  ? 
Ah,  no  !  thy  bright  intelligence 

Hath  its  own  Paradise, 
A  realm  wherein  to  hear  and  see 

Things  hidden  from  our  kind. 

Not  thou,  not  thou  —  't  is  we 

Are  deaf,  are  dumb,  are  blind  ! 
1888 

40 


PORTRAIT  D'UNE  DAME  ESPAGNOLE 
(FORTUNY) 

THE  hand  that  drew  thee  lies  in  Roman  soil, 
Whilst  on  the  canvas  thou  hast  deathless  grown, 

Endued  by  him  who  deemed  it  meaner  toil 
To  give  the  world  a  portrait  save  thine  own. 


Yet  had  he  found  thy  peer,  and  Rome  forborne 
Such  envy  of  his  conquest  over  Time, 

Beauty  had  waked,  and  Art  another  morn 

Had  gained,  and  ceased  to  sorrow  for  her  prime. 


What  spirit  was  it  —  where  the  masters  are  — 
Brooding  the  gloom  and  glory  that  were  Spain, 

Through  centuries  waited  in  its  orb  afar 

Until  our  age  Fortuny's  brush  should  gain  ? 


What  stroke  but  his  who  pictured  in  their  state 
Queen,  beggar,  noble,  Philip's  princely  brood, 
41 


PORTRAIT    D'UNE    DAME    ESPAGNOLE 

Could  thus  the  boast  of  Seville  recreate, 

Even  when  one  like  thee  before  him  stood  ? 


Like  thee,  own  child  of  Spain,  whose  beauteous 
pride, 

Desire,  disdain,  all  sins  thy  mien  express, 
Should  need  no  absolution  —  hadst  thou  died 

Unhouselled,  in  their  imaged  loveliness. 


All  this  had  Fate  decreed,  —  the  antique  skill, 
The  halt,  the  poise,  the  long  auspicious  day,  — 

Yielding  this  once,  thy  triumph  to  fulfil, 
Velasquez'  sceptre  to  Fortuny's  sway. 


Shine  from  thy  cloud  of  night,  fair  star,  nor  fear 
Oblivion,  though  men  thy  dust  inurn, 

For  who  may  bid  thy  counterpart  appear 
Until  the  hand  that  drew  thee  shall  return  ! 
1889 

42 


A   SEA-CHANGE,  AT   KELP   ROCK 

JUST  at  this  full  noon  of  summer 

There  's  a  touch,  unfelt  before, 
Charms  our  Coastland,  smoothing  from  her 

The  last  crease  her  forehead  wore : 
She,  too,  drains  the  sun-god's  potion, 

Quits  her  part  of  anchorite, 
Smiles  to  see  her  leaden  ocean 

Sparkle  in  the  austral  light ; 


While  the  tidal  depths  beneath  her 

Palpitate  with  warmth  and  love, 
And  the  infinite  pure  aether 

Floods  the  yearning  creek  and  cove, 
Harbor,  woodland,  promontory, 

Swarded  fields  that  slope  between, — 
And  our  gray  tower,  tinged  with  glory, 

Midway  flames  above  the  scene. 


On  this  day  of  all  most  luring, 
This  one  morn  of  all  the  year, 
43 


A    SEA-CHANGE,    AT    KELP    ROCK 

Read  I  —  soul  and  body  curing 
In  the  seaward  loggia  here  — 

Once,  twice,  thrice,  that  chorus  sweetest 
(Fortune's  darling,  Sophokles  !) 

Of  the  grove  whose  steeds  are  fleetest, 
Nurtured  by  the  sacred  breeze ; 


Of  Kolonos,  where  in  clusters 

Blooms  narcissus  —  where  unfold 
Ivied  trees  their  leafy  lustres 

And  the  crocus  spreads  its  gold ; 
Where  the  nightingales  keep  singing 

And  the  streamlets  never  cease, 
To  the  son  of  Laius  bringing 

Rest  at  last,  forgiveness,  peace. 


Drops  the  book  —  but  from  its  prison 

Tell  me  now  what  antique  spell, 
Through  the  unclaspt  cover  risen, 

Moves  the  waves  I  know  so  well ; 
Bids  me  find  in  them  hereafter, 

Dimpled  to  their  utmost  zone 
With  the  old  innumerous  laughter, 

An  ^Egean  of  my  own  ? 
44 


A    SEA-CHANGE,    AT    KELP    ROCK 

Even  so  :  the  blue  ^Egean 

Through  our  tendriled  arches  smiles, 
And  the  distant  empyrean 

Curves  to  kiss  enchanted  isles  : 
Isles  of  Shoals,  I  know  —  yet  fancy 

This  one  day  shall  have  free  range, 
And  yon  isles  her  necromancy 

Shall  to  those  of  Hellas  change. 


Look  !  beyond  the  lanterned  pharos 

Girt  with  reefs  that  evermore, 
Lashed  and  foaming,  cry  "  Beware  us  !  " 

Cloud-white  sails  draw  nigh  the  shore  : 
Sails,  methinks,  of  burnished  galleys 

Wafting  dark-browed  maids  within, 
From  those  island  hills  and  valleys, 

Dread  Athene's  grace  to  win. 


Sandalled,  coiffed,  and  white-robed  maidens, 

Chanting  in  their  carven  boats  ; 
List !  and  hear  anon  the  cadence 

Of  their  virginal  fresh  notes. 
You  shall  hear  the  choric  hymnos, 

Or  some  clear  prosodion 
Known  to  Delos,  Naxos,  Lemnos, 

Isles  beneath  the  eastern  sun. 
45 


A    SEA-CHANGE,    AT    KELP    ROCK 

'T  is  the  famed  ./Eolian  quire 

Bearing  Pallas  flowers  and  fruit  — 
Some  with  white  hands  touch  the  lyre, 

Some  with  red  lips  kiss  the  flute  ; 
You  shall  see  the  vestured  priestess, 

Violet-crowned,  her  chalice  swing, 
Ere  yon  cerylus  has  ceased  his 

Swirl  upon  "the  sea-blue  wing." 


In  the  great  Panathenaea 

Climbing  marble  porch  and  stair, 
Soon  before  the  statued  Dea 

Votive  baskets  they  shall  bear, 
Sacred  palm,  and  fragrant  censer, 

Wine-cups  — 

But  what  vapor  hoar, 
What  cloud-curtain  dense,  and  denser,* 

Looms  between  them  and  the  shore  ? 


OfF,  thou  Norseland  Terror,  clouding 
Hellas  with  the  jealous  wraith 

Which,  the  gods  of  old  enshrouding, 
Froze  their  hearts,  the  poet  saith  ! 


AT    KELP    ROCK 

Vain  the  cry  :  from  yon  abysm 

Now  the  fog-horn's  woeful  blast  — 

Stern  New  England's  exorcism  !  — 
Ends  my  vision  of  the  past. 

1890 

47 


HAREBELL 


A    REPARATION 


"  GRANT  him,"  I  said,  "  a  well-earned  name, 

The  stage's  knight,  the  keen  assayer 
Of  parts  whence  all  save  greatness  came, 
But  —  not  a  player. 


u  Strange,  as  of  fate's  perverseness,  this 

Proud,  eager  soul,  this  fine-strung  creature 
Should  seem  forever  just  to  miss 
That  touch  of  nature  ; 


"The  instinct  she  so  lightly  gives 

Some  fellow  at  his  rivals  snarling, 
Some  churl  who  gains  the  boards,  and  lives 
Transformed  —  her  darling  !  " 


"  You  think  so  ?  "  he  replied.     "  Well,  I 
Thought  likewise,  maugre  Lanciotto, 
48 


HAREBELL 


And  Yorick,  though  his  Cassius  nigh 
Won  Hamlet's  motto. 


"  But  would  you  learn,  as  I,  his  clew 

To  nature's  heart,  and  judge  him  fairly 
Go  see  his  rustic  bard,  go  view 
His  Man  o'  Airlie. 


"  See  that  defenceless  minstrel  brought 

From  hope  to  wan  despair,  from  laughter 
To  frenzy's  moan  :  the  image  wrought 
Will  haunt  you  after. 


"  Then  see  him  crowned  at  last !     If  such 

A  guerdon  waits  the  stricken  poet, 
'T  were  well,  you  '11  own,  to  bear  as  much 
Even  die,  to  know  it." 


"  Bravo  !  "  cried  I,  "  I  too,  the  thrill 

Must    feel  which     thus    your     blood    can 

waken." 

And  once  I  saw  upon  the  bill 
That  part  retaken ; 
49 


HAREBELL 


But  leagues  of  travel  stretched  between 

Me  and  that  idyl  played  so  rarely  : 
And  then  —  his  death  !  nor  had  I  seen 
"  The  Man  o'  Airlie." 


My  failure ;  not  the  actor's,  loved 

By  all  to  art  and  nature  loyal ; 
Not  his,  whom  Harebell's  passion  proved 

Of  the  blood  royal. 
1891 


THE    PILGRIMS 

O  PILGRIM  from  the  Indies  ! 

O  guest  from  out  the  North, 
Where  low  and  dun  the  midnight  sun 

Upon  the  wave  rides  forth  ! 
What  country  is  most  dear  of  all 

Beneath  the  heaven  blue  ? 
The  dearest  land  is  one's  own  land, 

Go  search  the  wide  world  through. 


O  know  you  not  that  henceforth 

All  countries  are  as  one  ? 
Ere  summer  fail,  the  world  shall  hail 

Its  golden  year  begun. 
But  still  each  pilgrim  answering  names 

The  clime  that  gave  him  birth : 
One's  own  land  is  the  dearest  land 

Of  all  fair  lands  on  earth. 

Children's  Song, 
Columbian  Exposition,  1893 

51 


MORS   BENEFICA 

GIVE  me  to  die  unwitting  of  the  day, 

And  stricken  in  Life's  brave  heat,  with  senses 
clear : 

Not   swathed  and  couched  until  the  lines  ap 
pear 

Of  Death's  wan  mask  upon  this  withering  clay, 
But  as  that  old  man  eloquent  made  way 

From  Earth,  a  nation's  conclave  hushed  anear; 

Or  as  the  chief  whose  fates,  that  he  may  hear 
The  victory,  one  glorious  moment  stay. 
Or,  if  not  thus,  then  with  no  cry  in  vain, 

No  ministrant  beside  to  ward  and  weep, 
Hand  upon  helm  I  would  my  quittance  gain 

In  some  wild  turmoil  of  the  waters  deep, 

And  sink  content  into  a  dreamless  sleep 
(Spared  grave  and  shroud)  below  the  ancient  main. 

1893 

52 


PROEM   TO   A   VICTORIAN 
ANTHOLOGY 


ENGLAND  !  since  Shakespeare  died  no  loftier  day 
For  thee  than  lights  herewith  a  century's  goal,  — 
Nor  statelier  exit  of  heroic  soul 

Conjoined  with  soul  heroic,  —  nor  a  lay 

Excelling  theirs  who  made  renowned  thy  sway 
Even  as  they  heard  the  billows  which  outroll 
Thine  ancient  sea,  and  left  their  joy  and  dole 

In  song,  and  on  the  strand  their  mantles  gray. 

Star-rayed  with  fame  thine  Abbey  windows  loom 
Above  his  dust,  whom  the  Venetian  barge 
Bore    to   the    main ;   who   passed    the    twofold 
marge 

To  slumber  in  thy  keeping,  —  yet  make  room 
For  the  great  Laurifer,  whose  chanting  large 

And  sweet  shall  last  until  our  tongue's  far  doom. 
1895 

53 


ON   WHITE   CARNATIONS   GIVEN 
ME   FOR   MY   BIRTHDAY 


EXQUISITE  tufts  of  perfume  and  of  light, 
Fair  gift  of  Summer  unto  Autumn  borne, 

Were  but  the  years  ye  calendar  as  white, 
As  sweet,  as  you,  Age  could  not  be  forlorn. 


Yet,  beauteous  symbols  of  my  only  gain  — 

Love,  portioned  from  your  givers'  envied  share, 

Honor,  whose  laurel  at  their  feet  hath  lain  — 
Make  me  this  night  of  Life's  waste  unaware  ! 

October  8,  1894 

54 


FATHER   JARDINE 

TRINITY    CHURCH,    ST.    LOUIS 


AROUND  his  loins,  when  the  last  breath  had  gone 
From  the  gaunt  frame  —  and  death's  encroach 
ing  mist, 

A  veil  betwixt  earth  left  and  heaven  won, 
Told  naught  of  all  it  wist  — 


Close  to  the  flesh,  sore-lashed  by  waves  of  pain, 

They  found  the  iron  girth  that  ate  his  side, 
Its  links  worn  bright  :  the  cruel,  secret  chain, 
They  found  it  when  he  died. 


Son  of  the  Church,  though  worldlings  spake  her 

creed 

And  smiled  askance,  even  in  the  altar  fold, 
This  man,  this  piteous  soul,  believed  indeed 
With  the  stern  faith  of  old. 
55 


FATHER    JARDINE 

Unquestioning  aught,  aye,  in  the  eager  West 
Surcharged  with  life  that  mocks  the  vague  un 
known, 

His  ligature  of  anguish  unconfest 
He  wore  alone  —  alone. 


Alone  ?  but  trebly  welded  links  of  fate 

More  lives  than  one  are  bidden  to  endure, 
Forged  in  a  chain's  indissoluble  weight 
Of  agonies  more  sure. 


His  torture  was  self-torture ;  to  his  soul 

No  jest  of  time  irrevocably  brought 
A  woe  more  grim  than  underneath  the  stole 
His  gnawing  cincture  wrought. 


Belike  my  garments,  —  yes,  or  thine,  —  conceal 

The  sorer  wound,  the  pitiabler  throe, 
Not  even  the  traitor  Death  shall  quite  reveal 
For  his  rough  mutes  to  know. 


What  the  heart  hungered  for  and  was  denied, 
Still  foiled  with  guerdons  for  a  world  to  see 

56 


FATHER    JARDINE 

And  envy  it,  —  this  furrows  deep  and  wide 
Its  grooves  in  thee  —  in  me. 


Borne,  always  borne  —  what  martyrdoms  assoil 

The  laden  soul  from  hostile  chance  and  blind  ? 
Nor  time  can  loose  the  adamantine  coil, 
Nor  Azrael  unbind. 


Redemption  for  the  priest !  but  naught  their  gain 
Who  forfeit  still  the  one  thing  asked  of  Earth, 
Knowing  all  penance  light  beside  this  pain  — 

All  pleasure,  nothing  worth. 
1894 

57 


FIN   DE   Sl£CLE 


Now  making  exit  to  the  outer  vast 

Our  century  speeds,  and  shall  retain  no  more 
Its  perihelion  splendor,  save  to  cast 

A  search-light  on  the  chartless  course  before. 


I  hear  the  murmur  of  our  kind,  whose  eyes 
Follow  the  spread  of  that  phantasmal  ray ; 

Who  see  as  infants  see,  nor  can  surmise 
Aright  of  what  is  near  —  what  far  away. 


I  hear  the  jest,  the  threnody,  the  low 

Recount  of  dreams  which  down  the  years  have 

fled,- 
Of  fair  romance  now  shattered  with  love's  bow, 

Of  legend  brought  to  test,  and  passion  dead. 


Dark  Science  broods  in  Fancy's  hermitage, 

The  rainbow  fades,  —  and  hushed,  they  say,  is 
Song 

58 


FIN    DE    SIECLE 

With  those  high  bards  who  lingering  charmed  the 

age 
Ere  one  by  one  they  joined  the  statued  throng. 


I  hear  the  dirge  for  beauty  sped,  and  faith 
Astray  in  space  and  time's  far  archways  lost, 

Till  Life  itself  becomes  a  tenuous  wraith, 

A    wandering    shade   whom   wandering    shades 
accost. 


Their  light  sad  plaint  I  hear  who  thus  divine 
The  future,  counselling  that  all  is  done,  — 

Naught   left   for  art's   sweet  touch  —  but   to   re 
fine, 
For  courage  —  but  to  face  the  setting  sun. 


I  hear,  yet  have  no  will  to  falter  so. 

We  seek  out  matter's  alchemy,  and  tame 
Force  to  our  needs,  but  what  shall  make  us  know 

Whether  the  twain  are  parted,  or  the  same  ? 


The  same  !  then  conscious  substance,  fetterless 
The  more  when  most  subdued  to  Will's  con 
trol, 

59 


FIN    DE    SIECLE 


Free  though  in  bonds,  foredestined  to  progress, 
Ever,  and  ever  still  —  the  soul,  the  soul : 


The  unvexed  spirit,  to  whose  sure  intent 
All  else  is  relative.     Or  large  or  small, 

The  Afrit,  cloud  or  being,  free  or  pent, 
Enshrouds,  impenetrates,  and  masters  all. 


No  grain  of  sand  too  narrow  to  enfold 
The  spirit's  incarnation ;  no  vast  land 

And  sea,  but,  readjusted  to  their  mould, 
It  deems  Atlantis  scarce  a  grain  of  sand. 


Time's  intervals  are  ages ;  planets  sleep 
In  death,  or  blaze  in  living  light  afar ; 

Thought   answers    thought ;    deep   calleth   unto 

deep 
Alike  within  the  globule  and  the  star. 


Ay,  even  the  rock-bound  globe,  which  still  doth 

feign 

Itself  inanimate,  itself  shall  seem 
From  yonder  void  a  bead  upon  the  train 

Of  heaven's  warder  rayed  with  beam  on  beam, 
60 


FIN    DE    SIECLE 

Life,  when  the  harper  tunes  his  shrillest  string, 
As  to  low  thunder  lends  a  finer  ear 

Unseen.     Niagara's  slow  vibrating 
Is  but  the  treble  of  the  greater  sphere, 


Whose  lightest  orchestras  such  movements  play 
As  mock  the  forest's  moan,  the  bass  profound 

Of  surges  that  against  deep  barriers  stay 

Their  might,  in  throes  which  shake  the  ancient 
ground. 


Will,  consciousness,  the  tenant  lord  of  all, 
Self-tenanted,  is  still  the  wrinkled  wave 

Which  climbs  a  wave  upon  the  clambering  wall 
Beyond,  or  in  the  hollow  seeks  a  grave. 


We  time  the  ray,  we  pulsate  with  the  fling 
Of  ether —  feel  the  sure  magnetic  thrill 

Make  answer  to  each  sombre  vortex  ring 

Whirled  with  the  whirling  sun   that  binds  us 
still  ; 


That  binds  us,  bound  itself  from  girth  to  pole 
By  some  unconquerable  deathless  force 
61 


FIN    DE    SIECLE 


Akin  to  this  which  thinks,  acts,  feels,  —  the  soul 
Of  man,  forever  eddying  like  its  source. 


Passion  and  jest,  the  laugh  and  wail  of  earth, 
High  thought  and  speech,  the  rare  considerings 

Of  beauty  that  to  fairer  art  gives  birth, 

The  winnowing  of  poesy's  swift  wings,  — 


These  —  though  the  hoary  century  inurn 

Our  great  —  no  gathering  mould  of  time  shall 

clod: 

They  bide  their  hour,  they  pass  but  to  return 
With  men,  as  now,  the  progeny  of  God. 
1892 

62 


II 

OTHER  SONGS   AND   BALLADS 


FALSTAFFS   SONG 

WHERE  's  he  that  died  o'  Wednesday  ? 

What  place  on  earth  hath  he  ? 
A  tailor's  yard  beneath,  I  wot, 

Where  worms  approaching  be ; 
For  the  wight  that  died  o'  Wednesday, 

Just  laid  the  light  below, 
Is  dead  as  the  varlet  turned  to  clay 

A  score  of  years  ago. 


Where 's  he  that  died  o'  Sabba'  day  ? 

Good  Lord,  I  'd  not  be  he  ! 
The  best  of  days  is  foul  enough 

From  this  world's  fare  to  flee  ; 
And  the  saint  that  died  o'  Sabba'  day, 

With  his  grave  turf  yet  to  grow, 
Is  dead  as  the  sinner  brought  to  pray 

A  hundred  years  ago. 


Where 's  he  that  died  o'  yesterday  ? 
What  better  chance  hath  he 

65 


FALSTAFF'S  SONG 

To  clink  the  can  and  toss  the  pot 
When  this  night's  junkets  be  ? 

For  the  lad  that  died  o'  yesterday 
Is  just  as  dead  —  ho  !   ho  !  — 

As  the  whoreson  knave  men  laid  away 
A  thousand  years  ago. 
66 


PROVENCAL   LOVERS 

AUCASSIN    AND    NICOLETTE 

WITHIN  the  garden  of  Beaucaire 
He  met  her  by  a  secret  stair,  — 
The  night  was  centuries  ago. 
Said  Aucassin,  "  My  love,  my  pet, 
These  old  confessors  vex  me  so  ! 
They  threaten  all  the  pains  of  hell 
Unless  I  give  you  up,  ma  belle  ;  "  - 
Said  Aucassin  to  Nicolette. 


"  Now,  who  should  there  in  Heaven  be 
To  fill  your  place,  ma  tres-douce  mie  ? 
To  reach  that  spot  I  little  care ! 
There  all  the  droning  priests  are  met ; 
All  the  old  cripples,  too,  are  there 
That  unto  shrines  and  altars  cling 
To  filch  the  Peter-pence  we  bring  j  "  — 
Said  Aucassin  to  Nicolette. 


PROVENCAL    LOVERS 

"  There  are  the  barefoot  monks  and  friars 
With  gowns  well  tattered  by  the  briars, 
The  saints  who  lift  their  eyes  and  whine : 
I  like  them  not  —  a  starveling  set  ! 
Who  'd  care  with  folk  like  these  to  dine  ? 
The  other  road  't  were  just  as  well 
That  you  and  I  should  take,  ma  belle  !  "  — 
Said  Aucassin  to  Nicolette. 


"  To  purgatory  I  would  go 
With  pleasant  comrades  whom  we  know, 
Fair  scholars,  minstrels,  lusty  knights 
Whose  deeds  the  land  will  not  forget, 
The  captains  of  a  hundred  fights, 
The  men  of  valor  and  degree : 
We  '11  join  that  gallant  company,"  — 
Said  Aucassin  to  Nicolette. 


u  There,  too,  are  jousts  and  joyance  rare, 
And  beauteous  ladies  debonair, 
The  pretty  dames,  the  merry  brides, 
Who  with  their  wedded  lords  coquette 
And  have  a  friend  or  two  besides,  — 
And  all  in  gold  and  trappings  gay, 
With  furs,  and  crests  in  vair  and  gray ;  " 
Said  Aucassin  to  Nicolette. 
68 


PROVENCAL    LOVERS 

"  Sweet  players  on  the  cithern  strings, 
And  they  who  roam  the  world  like  kings, 
Are  gathered  there,  so  blithe  and  free  ! 
Pardie  !   I  'd  join  them  now,  my  pet, 
If  you  went  also,  ma  douce  mie  ! 
The  joys  of  heaven  I  'd  forego 
To  have  you  with  me  there  below,"  — 
Said  Aucassin  to  Nicolette. 

1878 

69 


THE  WEDDING-DAY 


SWEETHEART,  name  the  day  for  me 
When  we  two  shall  wedded  be. 
Make  it  ere  another  moon, 
While  the  meadows  are  in  tune, 
And  the  trees  are  blossoming, 
And  the  robins  mate  and  sing. 
Whisper,  love,  and  name  a  day 
In  this  merry  month  of  May. 


No,  no,  no, 

You  shall  not  escape  me  so ! 
Love  will  not  forever  wait ; 
Roses  fade  when  gathered  late. 


ii 


Fie,  for  shame,  Sir  Malcontent ! 
How  can  time  be  better  spent 

70 


THE    WEDDING-DAY 

Than  in  wooing  ?     I  would  wed 
When  the  clover  blossoms  red, 
When  the  air  is  full  of  bliss, 
And  the  sunshine  like  a  kiss. 
If  you  're  good  I  '11  grant  a  boon  : 
You  shall  have  me,  sir,  in  June. 


Nay,  nay,  nay, 

Girls  for  once  should  have  their  way  ! 
If  you  love  me,  wait  till  June  : 
Rosebuds  wither,  picked  too  soon. 

1878 


THE   DUTCH    PATROL 

WHEN  Christmas-Eve  is  ended, 

Just  at  the  noon  of  night, 
Rare  things  are  seen  by  mortal  een 

That  have  the  second  sight. 
In  St.  Mark's  church-yard  then 

They  see  the  shape  arise 
Of  him  who  ruled  Nieuw  Amsterdam 

And  here  in  slumber  lies. 


His  face,  beneath  the  close  black  cap. 

Has  a  martial  look  and  grim ; 
On  either  side  his  locks  fall  wide 

To  the  broad  collar's  rim ; 
His  sleeves  are  slashed ;  the  velvet  coat 

Is  fashioned  Hollandese 
Above  his  fustian  breeches,  trimmed 

With  scarf-knots  at  the  knees. 


His  leg  of  flesh  is  hosed  in  silk ; 
His  wooden  leg  is  bound, 

72 


THE    DUTCH    PATROL 

As  well  befits  a  conqueror's, 
With  silver  bands  around. 

He  reads  the  lines  that  mark 
His  tablet  on  the  wall, 

Where  boldly  PETRUS  STUYVESANT 
Stands  out  beyond  them  all. 


"  'T  is  well !  "  he  says,  and  sternly  smiles, 

"  They  hold  our  memory  dear ; 
Nor  rust  nor  moss  hath  crept  across ; 

'T  will  last  this  many  a  year." 
Then  down  the  path  he  strides, 

And  through  the  iron  gate, 
Where  the  sage  Nine  Men,  his  councillors, 

Their  Governor  await. 


Here  are  Van  der  Donck  and  Van  Cortlandt, 

A  triplet  more  of  Vans, 
And  Hendrick  Kip  of  the  haughty  lip, 

And  Govert  Loockermans, 
Jan  Jansen  Dam,  and  Jansen, 

Of  whom  our  annals  tell,  — 
All  risen  this  night  their  lord  to  greet 

At  sound  of  the  Christmas  bell. 
73 


THE    DUTCH    PATROL 

Nine  lusty  forms  in  linsey  coats, 

Puffed  sleeves  and  ample  hose ! 
Each  burgher  smokes  a  Flemish  pipe 

To  warm  his  ancient  nose ; 
The  smoke-wreaths  rise  like  mist, 

The  smokers  all  are  mute, 
Yet  all,  with  pipes  thrice  waving  slow, 

Brave  Stuyvesant  salute. 


Then  into  ranks  they  fall, 

And  step  out  three  by  three, 
And  he  of  the  wooden  leg  and  staff 

In  front  walks  solemnly. 
Along  their  wonted  course 

The  phantom  troop  patrol, 
To  see  how  fares  Nieuw  Amsterdam, 

And  what  the  years  unroll. 


Street  after  street  and  mile  on  mile, 

From  river  bound  to  bound, 
From  old  St.  Mark's  to  Whitehall  Point, 

They  foot  the  limits  round ; 
From  Maiden  Lane  to  Corlaer's  Hook 

The  Dutchmen's  pypen  glow, 
But  never  a  word  from  their  lips  is  heard, 

And  none  their  passing  know. 
74 


THE    DUTCH    PATROL 

Ere  the  first  streak  of  dawn 

St.  Mark's  again  they  near, 
And  by  a  vault  the  Nine  Men  halt, 

Their  Governor's  voice  to  hear. 
"  Mynheeren,"  he  says,  "  ye  see 

Each  year  our  borders  spread  ! 
Lo,  one  by  one,  the  landmarks  gone, 

And  marvels  come  instead  ! 


"  Not  even  a  windmill  left, 

Nor  a  garden-plot  we  knew, 
And  but  a  paling  marks  the  spot 

Where  erst  my  pear-tree  grew. 
Our  walks  are  wearier  still, — 

Perchance  and  it  were  best, 
So  little  of  worth  is  left  on  earth, 

To  break  no  more  our  rest  ?  " 


Thus  speaks  old  Petrus  doubtfully 

And  shakes  his  valiant  head, 
When  —  on  the  roofs  a  sound  of  hoofs, 

A  rattling,  pattering  tread  ! 
The  bells  of  reindeer  tinkle, 

The  Dutchmen  plainly  spy 
St.  Nicholas,  who  drives  his  team 

Across  the  roof-tops  nigh. 
75 


THE    DUTCH    PATROL 

"  Beshrew  me  for  a  craven  ! " 

Cries  Petrus  —  "  All  goes  well ! 
Our  patron  saint  still  makes  his  round 

At  sound  of  the  Christmas  bell. 
So  long  as  stanch  St.  Nicholas 

Shall  guard  these  houses  tall, 
There  shall  come  no  harm  from  hostile  arm  — 

No  evil  chance  befall ! 


The  yongens  and  the  meisjes 

Shall  have  their  hosen  filled ; 
The  butcher  and  the  baker, 

And  every  honest  guild, 
Shall  merrily  thrive  and  flourish ; 

Good-night,  and  be  of  cheer ; 
We  may  safely  lay  us  down  again 

To  sleep  another  year  !  " 


Once  more  the  pipes  are  waved, 

Stout  Petrus  gives  the  sign, 
The  misty  smoke  enfolds  them  round, — 

Him  and  his  burghers  nine. 
All,  when  the  cloud  has  lifted, 

Have  vanished  quite  away, 
And  the  crowing  cock  and  steeple  clock 

Proclaim  't  is  Christmas-Day. 
1882  76 


WITCHCRAFT 


A.    D.     1692 

SOE,  Mistress  Anne,  faire  neighbour  myne, 

How  rides  a  witche  when  nighte-winds  blowe  ? 

Folk  saye  that  you  are  none  too  goode 

To  joyne  the  crewe  in  Salem  woode, 

When  one  you  wot  of  gives  the  signe : 

Righte  well,  methinks,  the  pathe  you  knowe. 


In  Meetinge-time  I  watched  you  well, 
Whiles  godly  Master  Parris  prayed  : 

Your  folded  hands  laye  on  your  booke ; 

But  Richard  answered  to  a  looke 

That  fain  would  tempt  him  unto  hell, 

Where,  Mistress  Anne,  your  place  is  made. 


You  looke  into  my  Richard's  eyes 

With  evill  glances  shamelesse  growne ; 
I  found  about  his  wriste  a  hair, 
And  guesse  what  fingers  tyed  it  there : 

77 


WITCHCRAFT 

He  shall  not  lightly  be  your  prize  — 
Your  Master  firste  shall  take  his  owne. 


'T  is  not  in  nature  he  should  be 

(Who  loved  me  soe  when  Springe  was  greene) 
A  childe,  to  hange  upon  your  gowne  ! 
He  loved  me  well  in  Salem  Towne 
Until  this  wanton  witcherie 

His  hearte  and  myne  crept  dark  betweene. 


Last  Sabbath  nighte,  the  gossips  saye, 

Your  goodman  missed  you  from  his  side. 

He  had  no  strength  to  move,  untill 

Agen,  as  if  in  slumber  still, 

Beside  him  at  the  dawne  you  laye. 

Tell,  nowe,  what  meanwhile  did  betide. 


Dame  Anne,  mye  hate  goe  with  you  fleete 

As  driftes  the  Bay  fogg  overhead  — 
Or  over  yonder  hill-topp,  where 
There  is  a  tree  ripe  fruite  shall  bear 
When,  neighbour  myne,  your  wicked  feet 
The  stones  of  Gallowes  Hill  shall  tread. 
78 


WITCHCRAFT 

II 

A.    D.     1884 

Our  great-great-grandpapas  had  schooled 

Your  fancies,  Lita,  were  you  born 
In  days  when  Cotton  Mather  ruled 

And  damask  petticoats  were  worn  ! 
Your  pretty  ways,  your  mocking  air, 

Had  passed,  mayhap,  for  Satan's  wiles 
As  fraught  with  danger,  then  and  there, 

To  you,  as  now  to  us  your  smiles. 


Why  not  ?     Were  inquest  to  begin, 

The  tokens  are  not  far  to  seek : 
Item  —  the  dimple  of  your  chin  ; 

Item  —  that  freckle  on  your  cheek. 
Grace  shield  his  simple  soul  from  harm 

Who  enters  yon  flirtation  niche, 
Or  trusts  in  whispered  counter-charm, 

Alone  with  such  a  parlous  witch ! 


Your  fan  a  wand  is,  in  disguise ; 

It  conjures,  and  we  straight  are  drawn 
Within  a  witches'  Paradise 

Of  music,  germans,  roses,  lawn. 
79 


WITCHCRAFT 


So  through  the  season,  where  you  go, 
All  else  than  Lita  men  forget  : 

One  needs  no  second-sight  to  know 
That  sorcery  is  rampant  yet. 


Now,  since  the  bars  no  more  await 

Fair  maids  that  practise  sable  arts, 
Take  heed,  while  I  pronounce  the  fate 

Of  her  who  thus  ensnares  men's  hearts : 
In  time  you  shall  a  wizard  meet 

With  spells  more  potent  than  your  own, 
And  you  shall  know  your  master,  Sweet, 

And  for  these  witcheries  atone. 


For  you  at  his  behest  shall  wear 

A  veil,  and  seek  with  him  the  church, 
And  at  the  altar  rail  forswear 

The  craft  that  left  you  in  the  lurch ; 
But  oft  thereafter,  musing  long, 

With  smile,  and  sigh,  and  conscience-twitch, 
You  shall  too  late  confess  the  wrong  — 

A  captive  and  repentant  witch. 
1884 

80 


AARON   BURR'S   WOOING 

FROM  the  commandant's  quarters  on  Westchester 

height 

The  blue  hills  of  Ramapo  lie  in  full  sight ; 
On  their  slope  gleam  the  gables  that  shield   his 

heart's  queen, 

But  the  redcoats  are  wary  —  the  Hudson  's  between. 
Through  the   camp   runs   a  jest :    "  There 's   no 

moon  —  't  will  be  dark  ; 
'T  is  odds  little  Aaron  will  go  on  a  spark !  " 
And  the  toast  of  the  troopers  is  :  "  Pickets,  lie  low, 
And  good  luck  to  the  colonel  and  Widow  Pre- 

vost !  " 


Eight  miles  to  the  river  he  gallops  his  steed, 
Lays  him  bound  in  the  barge,  bids  his  escort  make 

speed, 
Loose  their  swords,  sit  athwart,  through  the  fleet 

reach  yon  shore. 
Not  a  word  —  not  a  plash  of  the    thick-muffled 

oar! 

81 


AARON    BURR'S    WOOING 

Once  across,  once  again  in  the  seat  and  away  — 
Five  leagues  are  soon  over  when  love  has  the  say ; 
And  "  Old  Put "  and  his  rider  a  bridle-path  know 
To  the  Hermitage  manor  of  Madame  Prevost. 


Lightly  done  !  but  he  halts  in  the  grove's  deepest 

glade, 
Ties  his  horse  to  a  birch,  trims  his  cue,  slings  his 

blade, 
Wipes   the  dust  and   the  dew  from   his  smooth, 

handsome  face, 
With  the  'kerchief  she  broidered  and  bordered  in 

lace; 
Then  slips  through  the  box-rows  and  taps  at  the 

hall, 
Sees   the   glint  of  a  waxlight,  a  hand  white  and 

small, 

And  the  door  is  unbarred  by  herself  all  aglow  — 
Half  in  smiles,  half  in  tears  —  Theodosia  Prevost. 


Alack  for  the  soldier  that 's  buried  and  gone  ! 
What 's  a  volley  above  him,  a  wreath  on  his  stone, 
Compared  with  sweet  life  and  a  wife  for  one's  view 
Like  this  dame,  ripe  and  warm  in  her  India  fichu  ? 
She  chides  her  bold  lover,  yet  holds  him  more  dear, 
For  the  daring  that  brings  him  a  night-rider  here ; 
82 


AARON  BURR'S  WOOING 

British  gallants  by  day  through  her  doors   come 

and  go, 
But  a  Yankee 's  the  winner  of  Theo  Prevost. 


Where  's  the  widow  or  maid  with  a  mouth  to  be 

kist, 
When    Burr    comes    a-wooing,   that    long   would 

resist  ? 

Lights  and  wine  on  the  beaufet,  the  shutters  all  fast, 
And  "  Old   Put "  stamps  in  vain  till  an  hour  has 

flown  past  — 
But  an  hour,  for  eight  leagues  must   be  covered 

ere  day ; 
Laughs   Aaron,  "  Let   Washington   frown   as   he 

may, 

When  he  hears  of  me  next,  in  a  raid  on  the  foe, 
He  '11  forgive  this  night's  tryst  with  the  Widow 

Prevost !  " 
1886 

83 


COUSIN   LUCRECE 

HERE  where  the  curfew 

Still,  they  say,  rings, 
Time  rested  long  ago, 

Folding  his  wings  ; 
Here,  on  old  Norwich's 

Out-along  road, 
Cousin  Lucretia 

Had  her  abode. 


Norridge,  not  Nor-wich 

(See  Mother  Goose), 
Good  enough  English 

For  a  song's  use. 
Side  and  roof  shingled, 

All  of  a  piece, 
Here  was  the  cottage 

Of  Cousin  Lucrece. 


Living  forlornly 
On  nothing  a  year, 


COUSIN    LUCRECE 

How  she  took  comfort 
Does  not  appear ; 

How  kept  her  body, 
On  what  they  gave, 

Out  of  the  poor-house, 
Out  of  the  grave. 


Highly  connected  ? 

Straight  as  the  Nile 
Down  from  "  the  Gard'ners  " 

Of  Gardiner's  Isle  ; 
(Three  bugles,  chevron  gules, 

Hand  upon  sword), 
G  reat-great-gran  ddaughter 

Of  the  third  lord. 


Bent  almost  double, 

Deaf  as  a  witch, 
Gout  her  chief  trouble  — 

Just  as  if  rich  ; 
Vain  of  her  ancestry, 

Mouth  all  agrin, 
Nose  half-way  meeting  her 

Sky-pointed  chin. 
85 


COUSIN    LUCRECE 

Ducking  her  forehead-top, 

Wrinkled  and  bare, 
With  a  colonial 

Furbelowed  air 
Greeting  her  next  of  kin, 

Nephew  and  niece,  — 
Foolish  old,  prating  old 

Cousin  Lucrece. 


Once  every  year  she  had 

All  she  could  eat : 
Turkey  and  cranberries, 

Pudding  and  sweet ; 
Every  Thanksgiving, 

Up  to  the  great 
House  of  her  kinsman,  was 

Driven  in  state. 


Oh,  what  a  sight  to  see, 

Rigged  in  her  best  ! 
Wearing  the  famous  gown 

Drawn  from  her  chest,  — 
Worn,  ere  King  George's  reign 

Here  chanced  to  cease, 
Once  by  a  forbear 

Of  Cousin  Lucrece. 
86 


COUSIN    LUCRECE 

Damask  brocaded, 

Cut  very  low  ; 
Short  sleeves  and  finger-mitts 

Fit  for  a  show  ; 
Palsied  neck  shaking  her 

Rust-yellow  curls, 
Rattling  its  roundabout 

String  of  mock  pearls  ; 


Over  her  noddle, 

Draggled  and  stark, 
Two  ostrich  feathers  — 

Brought  from  the  ark. 
Shoes  of  frayed  satin, 

All  heel  and  toe, 
On  her  poor  crippled  feet 

Hobbled  below. 


My  !  how  the  Justice's 

Sons  and  their  wives 
Laughed  ;   while  the  little  folk 

Ran  for  their  lives, 
Asking  if  beldames 

Out  of  the  past, 
Old  fairy  godmothers, 

Always  could  last  ? 
87 


COUSIN    LUCRECE 

No  !  One  Thanksgiving, 

Bitterly  cold, 
After  they  took  her  home 

(Ever  so  old), 
In  her  great  chair  she  sank, 

There  to  find  peace ; 
Died  in  her  ancient  dress  — 

Poor  old  Lucrece. 
1892 

88 


HUNTINGTON   HOUSE 

LADIES,  Ladies  Huntington,  your  father  served,  we 
know, 

As  aide-de-camp  to  Washington  —  you  often  told 
us  so; 

And  when  you  sat  you  side  by  side  in  that  ances 
tral  pew, 

We  knew  his  ghost  sat  next  the  door,  and  very 
proud  of  you. 


Ladies,  Ladies  Huntington,  like  you  there  are  no 

more : 
Nancy,   Sarah,  Emily,    Louise,  —  proud    maidens 

four; 

Nancy  tall  and  angular,  Louise  a  rosy  dear, 
And  Emily  as  fine  as  lace  but  just  a  little  sere. 


What  was  it,  pray,  your  life  within  the  mansion 

grand  and  old, 
Four  dormers  in    its  gambrel-roof,  their  shingles 

grim  with  mould  ? 


HUNTINGTON    HOUSE 


How  dwelt  you  in  your  spinsterhood,  ye  ancient 

virgins  lone, 
From  infancy  to  bag-and-muff  so  resolutely  grown  ? 


Each  Sunday  morning   out   you  drove  to  Parson 

Arms's  church, 
As  straight  as  if  Time  had  not  left  you  somehow 

in  the  lurch ; 
And  so   lived  where  your  grandfather  and  father 

lived  and  died, 
Until  you  sought  them  one  by  one  —  and  last  of 

all  stayed  pride. 


You  knew  that  with  them  you  would  lie  in  that 

old  burial  ground 
Wherethrough  the  name  of  Huntington  on  vault 

and  stone  is  found, 
Where  Norwichtown's  first  infant  male,  in  sixteen- 

sixty  born, 
Grave  Christopher,  still  rests  beneath  his  cherub 

carved  forlorn. 


There    sleep    your    warlike    ancestors,    their    feet 
toward  the  east, 

90 


HUNTINGTON    HOUSE 

And  thus  shall  face  the  Judgment  Throne  when 

Gabriel's  blast  hath  ceased. 
The  frost  of  years  may  heave  the  tomb  whereto 

you  were  consigned, 
And  school-boys  peer  atween  the  cracks,  but  you 

—  will  never  mind. 
1894 

91 


CENTURIA 

(TWELFTH  NIGHT  CHORUS,  CENTURY  ASSOCIATION) 

THE  burthen  is  all  that  there  is  of  this  song, 

Centuria ! 
Let  it  sound  through  the  halls  where  our  memories 

throng  — 

Where  thy  dead  and  thy  living  commingled  belong ; 
Centuria,  Centuria,  vivat  Centuria  ! 


Let  it  sound  till  the  wise  and  the  gentle  and  brave, 

Centuria, 
Come  back  from  the  vale  where  their  soft  grasses 

wave, 

And  list  to  our  revel  and  join  in  the  stave ; 
Centuria,  Centuria,  vivat  Centuria ! 


For  the  pen,  lute  and  gown,  and  the  iris-hued  sky, 

Centuria, 

Were  theirs,  and  are  ours  while  the  nights  still  go 
by 

9* 


CENTURIA 


With  song,  wit  and  wassail,  and  true  hearts  anigh. 
Centuria,  Centuria,  vivat  Centuria  ! 


Then  love  as  they  loved  when  thine  eldest  was 
young, 

Centuria ! 
O  the  comrades  that  gossipped  and   painted  and 

sung, 

O  the  smoke-cloud  that  lingers  their  places  among  ! 
Centuria,  Centuria,  vivat  Centuria ! 


And  sing  as  they  '11  sing  in  thy  fair  years  untold, 

Centuria, 

Strong  hearts  that  shall  follow,  as  tender  and  bold ; 
We  may  fade,  we  shall  pass,  but  thou  growest  not 

old; 

Centuria,  Centuria,  vivat  Centuria ! 
1892 

93 


INSCRIPTIONS 


THAT  border  land  'twixt  Day  and  Night  be  mine, 
And  choice  companions  gathered  there  to  dine, 
With  talk,  song,  mirth,  soup,  salad,  bread  and  wine. 

Twilight  Club,  1883 


ii 


AT  set  of  sun  one  lone  star  rules  the  skies, 
Night  spreads  a  feast  the  day's  long  toil  has  won  : 
Eat,  drink,  —  enough,  no  more,  —  and  speak,  ye 

wise, 
Speak  —  but  enough,  no  more,  at  set  of  sun  ! 

Sunset  Club,  1891 

94 


Ill 

COMMEMORATIONS 


THE    DEATH    OF    BRYANT 

How  was  it  then  with  Nature  when  the  soul 

Of  her  own  poet  heard  a  voice  which  came 
From  out  the  void,  "  Thou  art  no  longer  lent 
To  Earth  !  "  when  that  incarnate  spirit,  blent 
With  the  abiding  force  of  waves  that  roll, 

Wind-cradled  vapors,  circling  stars  that  flame, 

She  did  recall  ?      How  went 
His  antique  shade,  beaconed  upon  its  way 
Through  the  still  aisles  of  night  to  universal  day  ? 


Her  voice  it  was,  her  sovereign  voice,  which  bade 

The  Earth  resolve  his  elemental  mould ; 
And  once  more  came  her  summons  :  "  Long,  too 

long, 

Thou  lingerest,  and  charmest  with  thy  song  ! 
Return!     return!"        Thus    Nature    spoke,    and 

made 

Her  sign  ;  and  forthwith  on  the  minstrel  old 

An  arrow,  bright  and  strong, 

97 


THE    DEATH    OF    BRYANT 

Fell  from  the  bent  bow  of  the  answering  Sun, 
Who  cried,  "  The  song  is  closed,  the  invocation 
done  !  " 


But  not  as  for  those  youths  dead  ere  their  prime, 

New-entered  on  their  music's  high  domain, 
Then  snatched  away,  did  all  things  sorrow  own  : 
No  utterance  now  like  that  sad  sweetest  tone 
When  Bion  died,  and  the  Sicilian  rhyme 

Bewailed ;  no  sobbing  of  the  reeds  that  plain 

Rehearsing  some  last  moan 
Of  Lycidas  ;  no  strains  which  skyward  swell 
For  Adonais  still,  and  still  for  Asphodel ! 


The  Muses  wept  not  for  him  as  for  those 

Of  whom  each  vanished  like  a  beauteous  star 
Quenched  ere  the  shining  midwatch  of  the  night  j 
The  greenwood  Nymphs  mourned  not  his  lost  de 
light  ; 
Nor  Echo,  hidden  in  the  tangled  close, 

Grieved  that  she  could  not  mimic  him  afar. 

He  ceased  not  from  our  sight 
Like  him  who,  in  the  first  glad  flight  of  spring, 
Fell  as  an  eagle  pierced  with  shafts  from  his  own 
wing. 


THE    DEATH    OF    BRYANT 

This  was  not  Thyrsis  !  no,  the  minstrel  lone 

And  reverend,  the  woodland  singer  hoar, 
Who  was  dear  Nature's  nursling,  and  the  priest 
Whom  most  she  loved ;  nor  had  his  office  ceased 
But  for  her  mandate  :  "  Seek  again  thine  own  ; 
The   walks  of   men   shall   draw   thy   steps    no 
more !  " 

Softly,  as  from  a  feast 
The  guest  departs  that  hears  a  low  recall, 
He  went,  and  left  behind  his  harp  and  coronal. 

"  Return  !  "  she  cried,  "  unto  thine  own  return  ! 
Too  long  the  pilgrimage ;  too  long  the  dream 
In  which,  lest  thou  shouldst  be  companionless, 
Unto  the  oracles  thou  hadst  access,  — 
The  sacred  groves  that  with  my  presence  yearn." 
The   voice   was   heard   by   mountain,  dell,  and 
stream, 

Meadow  and  wilderness  — 
All  fair  things  vestured  by  the  changing  year, 
Which  now  awoke  in  joy  to  welcome  one  most 
dear. 


"  He  comes !  "  declared  the  unseen  ones  that  haunt 
The  dark  recesses,  the  infinitude 
99 


THE    DEATH    OF    BRYANT 

Of  whispering  old  oaks  and  soughing  pines. 
u  He  comes  !  "  the  warders  of  the  forest  shrines 
Sang  joyously.     u  His  spirit  ministrant 

Henceforth  with  us  shall  walk  the  underwood. 

Till  mortal  ear  divines 
Its  music  added  to  our  choral  hymn, 
Rising  and  falling  far  through  archways  deep  and 
dim !  " 


The  orchard  fields,  the  hillside  pastures  green, 
Put  gladness  on ;  the  rippling  harvest-wave 
Ran  like  a  smile,  as  if  a  moment  there 
His  shadow  poised  in  the  midsummer  air 
Above ;  the  cataract  took  a  pearly  sheen 
Even  as  it  leapt ;  the  winding  river  gave 

A  sound  of  welcome  where 
He  came,  and  trembled,  far  as  to  the  sea 
It  moves  from  rock-ribbed  heights  where  its  dark 
fountains  be. 


His  presence  brooded  on  the  rolling  plain, 

And  on  the  lake  there  fell  a  sudden  calm, — 
His  own  tranquillity ;  the  mountain  bowed 
Its  head,  and  felt  the  coolness  of  a  cloud, 
And  murmured,  "  He  is  passing  !  "  and  again 
100 


THE    DEATH    OF    B  R  "i  AN  T 

Through  all  its  firs  the  wind  swept  like  a  psalm ; 

Its  eagles,  thunder-browed, 

In  that  mist-moulded  shape  their  kinsman  knew, 
And  circled  high,  and  in  his  mantle  soared  from 
view. 


So  drew  he  to  the  living  veil,  which  hung 
Of  old  above  the  deep's  unimaged  face, 

And  sought  his  own.      Henceforward  he  is  free 

Of  vassalage  to  that  mortality 

Which  men  have  given  a  sepulchre  among 

The  pathways  of  their  kind,  —  a  resting-place 
Where,  bending  one  great  knee, 

Knelt  the  proud  mother  of  a  mighty  land 

In  tenderness,  and  came  anon  a  plumed  band. 


Came  one  by  one  the  seasons  meetly  drest, 

To  sentinel  the  relics  of  their  seer. 
First  Spring  —  upon  whose  head  a  wreath  was  set 
Of  wind-flowers  and  the  yellow  violet  — 
Advanced.     Then  Summer  led  his  loveliest 

Of  months,  one  ever  to  the  minstrel  dear 

(Her  sweet  eyes  dewy  wet), 

June,  and  her  sisters,  whose  brown  hands  entwine 
The  brier-rose  and  the  bee-haunted  columbine. 
101 


THE    DEATH    OF    BRYANT 

Next,  Autumn,  like  a  monarch  sad  of  heart, 

Came,  tended  by  his  melancholy  days. 
Purple  he  wore,  and  bore  a  golden  rod, 
His  sceptre;  and  let  fall  upon  the  sod 
A  lone  fringed-gentian  ere  he  would  depart. 

Scarce   had  his  train  gone  darkling  down    the 
ways 

When  Winter  thither  trod,  — 
Winter,  with  beard  and  raiment  blown  before, 
That  was  so  seeming  like  our  poet  old  and  hoar. 


What  forms  are  these  amid  the  pageant  fair, 
Harping   with   hands   that  falter  ?      What   sad 

throng  ? 

They  wait  in  vain,  a  mournful  brotherhood, 
And  listen  where  their  laurelled  elder  stood 
For  some  last  music  fallen  through  the  air. 

"  What   cold,  thin   atmosphere  now   hears  thy 
song  ?  " 

They  ask,  and  long  have  wooed 
The  woods  and  waves  that  knew  him,  but  can 

learn 
Naught  save  the  hollow,  haunting  cry,  "  Return  ! 

return  !  " 
1878 

102 


GIFFORD 


THE    CLOSED    STUDIO 

THIS  was  a  magician's  cell  : 
Beauty's  self  obeyed  his  spell ! 
When  the  air  was  gloom  without, 
Grace  and  Color  played  about 
Yonder  easel.     Many  a  sprite, 
Golden-winged  with  heaven's  light, 
Let  the  upper  skies  go  drear, 
Spreading  his  rare  plumage  here. 


Skyward  now,  —  alas  the  day  !  — 
See  the  truant  Ariels  play  ! 
Cloud  and  air  with  light  they  fill, 
Wandering  at  idle  will, 
Nor  (with  half  their  tasks  undone) 
Stay  to  mourn  the  master  gone. 
Only  in  this  hollow  room, 
Now,  the  stillness  and  the  gloom. 
103 


GIFFORD 


II 


OF    WINTER    NIGHTS 

When  the  long  nights  return,  and  find  us  met 
Where  he  was  wont  to  meet  us,  and  the  flame 
On  the  deep  hearth-stone  gladdens  as  of  old, 
And  there  is  cheer,  as  ever  in  that  place, 
How  shall  our  utmost  nearing  close  the  gap 
Known,  but  till  then  scarce  measured  ?     Or  what 

light 

Of  cheer  for  us,  his  gracious  presence  gone, 
His  speech  delayed,  till  none  shall  fail  to  miss 
That  halting  voice,  yet  sure,  speaking,  it  seemed 
The  one  apt  word  ?     For  well  the  painter  knew 
Art's  alchemy  and  law ;  her  nobleness 
Was  in  his  soul,  her  wisdom  in  his  speech, 
And  loyalty  was  housed  in  that  true  heart, 
Gentle  yet  strong,  and  yielding  not  one  whit 
Of  right  or  purpose.     Now,  not  more  afar 
The  light  of  last  year's  Yule  fire  than  the  smile 
Of  Giffbrd,  nor  more  irreclaimable 
Its  vapor  mingled  with  the  wintry  air. 
1880 

104 


CORDA   CONCORDIA 

READ    AT    THE    OPENING    SESSION    OF    THE    SUMMER 
SCHOOL  OF  PHILOSOPHY,  CONCORD,  JULY  II,  I  88  I 

No  sandalled  footsteps  fall, 

Tablet  and  coronal 
From  the  Cephissian  grove  have  vanished  long, 

Yet  in  the  sacred  dale 

Still  bides  the  nightingale 
Easing  his  ancient  heart-break  still  with  song ; 

Or  is  there  some  dim  audience 
Viewless  to  all  save  his  unclouded  sense  ? 


Revisit  now  those  glades 
The  stately  mantled  shades 
Whose  lips  so  wear  the  inexorable  spell  ? 
Saying,  with  heads  sunk  low, 
All  that  we  sought,  we  know,  — 
We  know,  but  not  to  mortal  ears  may  tell : 

No  answer  unto  mart's  desire 
Shall  thus  be  made,  to  quench  his  eager  fire. 
105 


CORDA    CONCORDIA 

Under  these  orchard  trees 

Still  pure  and  fresh  the  breeze 
As  where  the  plane-tree  whispered  to  the  elm ; l 

The  thrush  and  robin  bring 

A  new-world  offering 
Of  song,  —  nor  are  we  banished  from  the  realm 

Of  thought  that  as  the  wind  is  pure, 
And  converse  deep,  and  memories  that  endure. 


Some  honey  dropped  as  well, 

Some  dew  of  hydromel 
From  wilding  meadow-bees,  upon  the  lips 

Of  poet  and  sage  who  found, 

Here  on  our  own  dear  ground, 
Light  as  of  old ;  who  let  no  dull  eclipse 
Obscure  this  modern  sky,  where  first 
Through  perilous  clouds  the  dawn  of  freedom  burst. 


Within  this  leafy  haunt 

Their  service  ministrant 
Upheld  the  nobler  freedom  of  the  soul. 

How  was  it  hither  came 

The  message  and  the  flame 
Anew  ?     Make  answer  from  thine  aureole 

1  Aristophanes  :  Nubes,  995. 
1 06 


CORDA    CONCORDIA 


O  mother  Nature,  thou  who  best 
Man's  heart  in  all  thy  ways  interpretest ! 


High  thoughts  of  thee  brought  near 

Unto  our  minstrel-seer 
The  antique  calm,  the  Asian  wisdom  old, 

Till  in  his  verse  we  heard 

Of  blossom,  bee,  and  bird, 
Of  mountain  crag  and  pine,  the  manifold 

Rich  song,  —  and  on  the  world  his  eyes 
Dwelt  penetrant  with  vision  sweet  and  wise. 


Whence  came  the  silver  tongue 

To  one  forever  young 
Who  spoke  until  our  hearts  within  us  burned  ? 

This  reverend  one,  who  took 

No  palimpsest  or  book, 
But  read  his  soul  with  glances  inward  turned, 

While  (her  rapt  forehead  like  the  dawn) 
The  Sibyl  listened,  by  that  music  drawn, 


And  from  her  fearless  mouth, 
Where  never  speech  had  drouth, 
Gave  voice  to  some  old  chant  of  womanhood, 
Her  own  imaginings, 
107 


CORDA    CONCORDIA 


Like  swift,  resplendent  things, 
Flashing  from  eyes  that  knew  to  beam  or  brood. 

What  sought  these  shining  ones  ?    What  thought 
From  preacher-saint  have  poet  and  teacher  caught  ? 


In  scorn  of  meaner  use, 

Anon,  the  young  recluse 
Builded  his  hut  beside  the  woodland  lake, 

And  set  the  world  far  off, 

Though  with  no  will  to  scoff, 
Thus  from  the  Earth's  near  breast  fresh  life  to  take. 

Against  her  bosom,  heart  to  heart, 
All  Nature's  sweets  he  ravished  for  his  Art. 


The  soul's  fine  instrument, 
Of  pains  and  raptures  blent, 

Replied  to  these  clear  voices,  tone  for  tone, 
Their  cadence  answering 
With  tuneful  sounds  that  wing 

The  upper  air  a  few  perchance  have  known, 
The  stormless  empyrean,  where 

In  strength  and  joy  a  few  move  unaware. 


Ah,  even  thus  the  thrill 
Of  life  beyond  life's  ill 
108 


CORDA    CONCORDIA 

To  feel  betimes  our  envious  selves  are  fain,  — 

Seeing  that,  as  birds  in  night 

Wind-driven  against  the  light 

Whose  unseen  armor  mocks  their  stress  and 

pain, 

Most  men  fall  baffled  in  the  surge 
That  to  their  cry  responds  but  with  a  dirge. 


Where  broods  the  Absolute, 
Or  shuns  our  long  pursuit 

By  fiery  utmost  pathways  out  of  ken  ? 
Fleeter  than  sunbeams,  lo, 
Our  passionate  spirits  go, 

And  traverse  immemorial  space,  and  then 
Look  off,  and  look  in  vain,  to  find 

The  master-clew  to  all  they  left  behind. 


White  orbs  like  angels  pass 
Before  the  triple  glass, 

That  men  may  scan  the  record  of  each  flame, — 
Of  spectral  line  and  line 
The  legendry  divine, — 
Finding  their  mould  the  same,  and  aye  the  same, 

The  atoms  that  we  knew  before 
Of  which  ourselves  are  made, —  dust,  and  no 
more. 

109 


CORDA    CONCORDIA 

So  let  our  defter  art 

Probe  the  warm  brain,  and  part 
Each  convolution  of  the  trembling  shell : 

But  whither  now  has  fled 

The  sense  to  matter  wed 
That  murmured  here  ?     All  silence,  such  as  fell 

When  to  the  shrine  beyond  the  Ark 
The  soldiers  reached,  and  found  it  void  and  dark. 


Seek  elsewhere,  and  in  vain 

The  wings  of  morning  chain  ; 
Their  speed  transmute  to  fire,  and  bring  the  Light, 

The  co-eternal  beam 

Of  the  blind  minstrel's  dream  ; 
But  think  not  that  bright  heat  to  know  aright, 

Nor  how  the  trodden  seed  takes  root, 
Waked  by  its  glow,  and  climbs  to  flower  and  fruit. 


Behind  each  captured  law 
Weird  shadows  give  us  awe ; 
Press  with  your  swords,  the  phantoms  still  evade ; 
Through  our  alertest  host 
Wanders  at  ease  some  ghost, 
Now  here,  now  there,  by  no  enchantment  laid, 

And  works  upon  our  souls  its  will, 
Leading  us  on  to  subtler  mazes  still. 
1 10 


CORDA    CONCORDIA 

We  think,  we  feel,  we  are ; 

And  light,  as  of  a  star, 
Gropes  through  the  mist,  —  a  little  light  is  given  ; 

And  aye  from  life  and  death 

We  strive,  with  indrawn  breath, 
To  somehow  wrest  the  truth,  and  long  have  striven, 

Nor  pause,  though  book  and  star  and  clod 
Reply,  Canst  thou  by  searching  find  out  God  ? 


As  from  the  hollow  deep 

The  soul's  strong  tide  must  keep 
Its  purpose  still.     We  rest  not,  though  we  hear 

No  voice  from  heaven  let  fall, 

No  chant  antiphonal 
Sounding  through  sunlit  clefts  that  open  near ; 

We  look  not  outward,  but  within, 
And  think  not  quite  to  end  as  we  begin. 


For  now  the  questioning  age 
Cries  to  each  hermitage, 
Cease  not  to  ask,  —  or  bring  again  the  time 
When  the  young  world's  belief 
Made  light  the  mourner's  grief 
And  strong  the  sage's  word,  the  poet's  rhyme, 
Ere  Knowledge  thrust  a  spear-head  through 
The  temple's  veil  that  priests  so  closely  drew. 
in 


CORDA    CONCORDIA 

From  what  our  fate  inurns  — 
Save  that  which  music  yearns 

To  speak,  in  ecstasy  none  understand, 
And  (Oh,  how  like  to  it !) 
The  half-formed  rays  that  flit, 

Like  memories  vague,  above  the  further  land  — 
Cry,  as  the  star-led  Magi  cried, 

We  seek^  we  seek^  we  will  not  be  denied  ! 


Let  the  blind  throng  await 

A  healer  at  the  gate  ; 
Our  hearts  press  on  to  see  what  yonder  lies, 

Knowing  that  arch  on  arch 

Shall  loom  across  the  march 
And  over  portals  gained  new  strongholds  rise. 

The  search  itself  a  glory  brings, 
Though  foiled  so  oft,  that  seeks  the  soul  of  things. 


Some  brave  discovery, 

Howbeit  in  vain  we  try 
To  clutch  the  shape  that  lures  us  evermore, 

It  shall  be  ours  to  make,  — 

As,  where  the  waters  break 
Upon  the  margin  of  a  pathless  shore, 

They  find,  who  sought  for  gold  alone, 
The  sudden  wonders  of  a  clime  unknown. 

112 


CORDA    CONCORDIA 

Such  treasure  by  the  way 

Your  errantry  shall  pay, 
Nor  shall  it  aught  against  your  hope  prevail 

That  not  to  waking  eyes 

The  golden  clouds  arise 
Wherewith  our  visions  clothe  the  mystic  Grail, 

When,  in  blithe  halts  upon  the  road, 
We  sleep  where  pilgrims  earlier  gone  abode. 


After  the  twelvemonth  set 

When  as  of  old  they  met, 
(A  twelvemonth  and  a  day,  and  kept  their  tryst), 

And  knight  to  pilgrim  told, 

Things  given  them  to  behold 
What  country  found,  what  gained  of  all  they  wist, 

(While  ministering  hands  assign 
To  each  a  share  of  healing  food  and  wine,) 


So  come,  —  when  long  grass  waves 
Above  the  holiest  graves 

Of  them  whose  ripe  adventure  chides  our  own, — 
Come  where  the  great  elms  lean 
Their  quivering  leaves  and  green 
To  shade  the  moss-clung  roofs  now  sacred  grown, 

And  where  the  bronze  and  granite  tell 
How  Liberty  was  hailed  with  Life's  farewell. 
113 


CORDA    CONCORDIA 

Here  let  your  Academe 

Be  no  ignoble  dream, 
But,  consecrate  with  life  and  death  and  song, 

Through  the  land's  spaces  spread 

The  trust  inherited, 
The  hope  which  from  your  hands  shall  take  no 

wrong, 

And  build  an  altar  that  may  last 
Till  heads  now  young  be  laurelled  with  the  Past. 
114 


ON  A  GREAT  MAN  WHOSE  MIND 
IS  CLOUDING 


THAT  sovereign  thought  obscured  ?      That  vision 

clear 

Dimmed  in  the  shadow  of  the  sable  wing, 
And  fainter  grown  the  fine  interpreting 

Which  as  an  oracle  was  ours  to  hear ! 

Nay,  but  the  Gods  reclaim  not  from  the  seer 
Their  gift,  —  although  he  ceases  here  to  sing, 
And,  like  the  antique  sage,  a  covering 

Draws  round  his  head,  knowing  what  change  is 

near. 
1882 


ON  THE  DEATH  OF  AN  INVINCIBLE 
SOLDIER 

O  what  a  sore  campaign, 

Of  which  men  long  shall  tell, 

Ended  when  he  was  slain  — 
When  this  our  greatest  fell ! 


For  him  no  mould  had  cast 
A  bullet  surely  sped ; 

No  falchion,  welded  fast, 
His  iron  blood  had  shed. 


Death  on  the  hundredth  field 
Had  failed  to  bring  him  low ; 

He  was  not  born  to  yield 
To  might  of  mortal  foe. 


Even  to  himself  unknown, 
He  bore  the  fated  sword, 
116 


DEATH    OF    AN    INVINCIBLE  .SOLDIER 

Forged  somewhere  near  His  throne 
Of  battles  still  the  Lord. 


That  weapon  when  he  drew, 

Back  rolled  the  wrath  of  men,  — 

Their  onset  feebler  grew, 
The  Nation  rose  again. 


The  splendor  and  the  fame  — 
Whisper  of  these  alone, 

Nor  say  that  round  his  name 
A  moment's  shade  was  thrown ; 


Count  not  each  satellite 

'Twixt  him  and  glory's  sun, 

The  circling  things  of  night ; 
Number  his  battles  won. 


Where  then  to  choose  his  grave  ? 

From  mountain  unto  sea, 
The  Land  he  fought  to  save 

His  sepulchre  shall  be. 

117 


DEATH    OF    AN    INVINCIBLE    SOLDIER 

Yet  to  its  fruitful  earth 

His  quickening  ashes  lend, 

That  chieftains  may  have  birth, 
And  patriots  without  end. 


His  carven  scroll  shall  read : 
Here  rests  the  valiant  heart 

Whose  duty  was  his  creed, — 
Whose  lot,  the  warrior's  part. 


Who,  when  the  fight  was  done, 

The  grim  last  foe  defied, 
Naught  knew  save  victory  won, 

Surrendered  not  —  but  died. 
1885 

118 


LIBERTY  ENLIGHTENING  THE 
WORLD 

WARDER  at  ocean's  gate, 
Thy  feet  on  sea  and  shore, 

Like  one  the  skies  await 

When  time  shall  be  no  more ! 

What  splendors  crown  thy  brow  ? 

What  bright  dread  angel  Thou, 
Dazzling  the  waves  before 
Thy  station  great  ? 


"  My  name  is  Liberty  ! 

From  out  a  mighty  land 
I  face  the  ancient  sea, 

I  lift  to  God  my  hand ; 
By  day  in  Heaven's  light, 
A  pillar  of  fire  by  night, 
At  ocean's  gate  I  stand 
Nor  bend  the  knee. 
119 


LIBERTY    ENLIGHTENING    THE    WORLD 

"  The  dark  Earth  lay  in  sleep, 

Her  children  crouched  forlorn, 
Ere  on  the  western  steep 

I  sprang  to  height,  reborn  : 
Then  what  a  joyous  shout 
The  quickened  lands  gave  out, 
And  all  the  choir  of  morn 
Sang  anthems  deep. 


"  Beneath  yon  firmament, 

The  New  World  to  the  Old 
My  sword  and  summons  sent, 

My  azure  flag  unrolled  : 
The  Old  World's  hands  renew 
Their  strength ;  the  form  ye  view 
Came  from  a  living  mould 
In  glory  blent. 


"  O  ye,  whose  broken  spars 

Tell  of  the  storms  ye  met, 
Enter  !   fear  not  the  bars 

Across  your  pathway  set ; 
Enter  at  Freedom's  porch, 
For  you  I  lift  my  torch, 
For  you  my  coronet 
Is  rayed  with  stars. 
1 20 


LIBERTY    ENLIGHTENING    THE    WORLD 

"  But  ye  that  hither  draw 
To  desecrate  my  fee, 
Nor  yet  have  held  in  awe 

The  justice  that  makes  free,  — 
Avaunt,  ye  darkling  brood  ! 
By  Right  my  house  hath  stood : 
My  name  is  Liberty, 
My  throne  is  Law." 


O  wonderful  and  bright, 

Immortal  Freedom,  hail ! 
Front,  in  thy  fiery  might, 

The  midnight  and  the  gale ; 
Undaunted  on  this  base 
Guard  well  thy  dwelling-place : 
Till  the  last  sun  grow  pale 

Let  there  be  Light ! 
1888 

121 


AD   VIGILEM 

WHAT   seest   thou,   where   the  peaks    about  thee 
stand, 

Far  up  the  ridge  that  severs  from  our  view 

That  realm  unvisited  ?     What  prospect  new 
Holds  thy  rapt  eye  ?     What  glories  of  the  land, 
Which    from    yon    loftier    cliff   thou    now    hast 
scanned, 

Upon  thy  visage  set  their  lustrous  hue  ? 

Speak,  and  interpret  still,  O  Watchman  true, 
The  signals  answering  thy  lifted  hand  ! 


And  bide  thee  yet !  still  linger,  ere  thy  feet 

To  sainted  bards  that  beckon  bear  thee  down  — 

Though  lilies,  asphodel  and  spikenard  sweet 
Await  thy  tread  to  blossom ;  and  the  crown 

Long   since   is   woven   of  Heaven's   palm-leaves, 

meet 
For  him  whom  Earth  can  lend  no  more  renown. 

Whittier's  Eightieth  Birthday 
December  17,  1887 

122 


"ERGO    IRIS" 

WEARY  at  length  of  the  ancestral  gloom, 

The  self-same  drone,  the  patter  of  dull  pens, 
Nature  sent  Iris  of  the  rosy  plume, 

Bearing  to  Holmes  her  wonder-working  lens ; 
Grateful,  he  gave  his  dearest  child  her  name, 

Lit  the  shrewd  East   with   laughter,  love    and 

tears,  — 
Bade  halt  the  sun  —  and  arching  into  fame 

His  rainbowed  fancy  now  the  world  enspheres. 

On  his  Eightieth  Birthday 
August  29,  1889 

123 


w.  w. 

GOOD-BYE,  Walt ! 

Good-bye,  from  all  you  loved  of  earth  — 
Rock,  tree,  dumb  creature,  man  and  woman  — 
To  you,  their  comrade  human. 

The  last  assault 
Ends  now;   and   now  in   some  great   world   has 

birth 
A  minstrel,  whose  strong  soul  finds  broader  wings, 

More  brave  imaginings. 

Stars  crown  the  hilltop  where  your  dust  shall  lie, 
Even  as  we  say  good-bye, 
Good-bye,  old  Walt ! 

Lines  sent  to  his  funeral 

with  an  ivy  wreath, 

March  30,  1892 

124 


BYRON 


A  HUNDRED  years,  't  is  writ,  —  O  presage  vain  !  — 
Earth   wills   her  offspring   life,   ere    one   com 
plete 

His  term,  and  rest  from  travail,  and  be  fain 
To  lay  him  down  in  natural  death  and  sweet. 


What  of  her  child  whose  swift  divining  soul 
With  triple  fervor  burns  the  torch  apace, 

And  in  one  radiant  third  compacts  the  whole 
Ethereal  flame  that  lights  him  on  his  race  ? 


Ay,  what  of  him  who  to  the  winds  upheld 

A  star-like  brand,  with  pride  and  joy  and  tears, 

And  lived  in  that  fleet  course  from  youth  to  eld, 
Count  them  who  will,  his  century  of  years  ? 


The  Power  that  arches  heaven's  orbway  round 
Gave  to  this  planet's  brood  its  soul  of  fire, 
125 


BYRON 


Its  heart  of  passion,  —  and  for  life  unbound 
By  chain  or  creed  the  measureless  desire ; 


Gave  to  one  poet  these,  and  manifold 

High  thoughts,  beyond  our  lesser  mortal  share,  — 
Gave  dreams  of  beauty,  yes,  and  with  a  mould 

The  antique  world  had  worshipped  made  him 
fair; 


Then  touched  his  lips  with  music,  —  lit  his  brow, 
Even  as  a  fane  upon  a  sunward  hill, 

For  strength,  gave  scorn,  the  pride  that  would  not 

bow, 
The  glorious  weapon  of  a  dauntless  will.1 


But  that  the  surcharged  spirit —  a  vapor  pent 
In  beetling  crags  —  a  torrent  barriered  long  — 

A  wind  'gainst  heaven's  four  winds  imminent  — 
Might  memorably  vent  its  noble  song, 


Each  soaring  gift  was  fretted  with  a  band 

That  deadlier  clung  which  way  he  fain  would 
press : 

126 


BYRON 


His  were  an  adverse  age,  a  sordid  land, 
Gauging  his  heart  by  their  own  littleness ; 


Blind  guides !  the  fiery  spirit  scorned  their  curb, 
And    Byron's    love    and    gladness,  —  such  the 
wise 

Of  ministrants  whom  evil  times  perturb,  — 
To  wrath  and  melancholy  changed  their  guise. 


Yet  this  was  he  whose  swift  imaginings 

Engirt  fair  Liberty  from  clime  to  clime, — 

From  Alp  to  ocean  with  an  eagle's  wings 
Pursued  her  flight,  in  Harold's  lofty  rime. 


Where  the  mind's  freedom  was  not,  could  not  be, 
That  bigot  soil  he  rendered  to  disdain, 

And  sought,  like  Omar  in  his  revelry, 
At  least  the  semblance  of  a  joy  to  gain. 


Laughter  was  at  his  beck,  and  wisdom's  ruth 
Sore-learned  from  fierce  experiences  that  test 

Life's  masquerade,  the  carnival  of  youth, 

The  world  of  man.     Then  Folly  lost  her  zest, 
127 


BYRON 


Yet  left  undimmed  (her  valediction  sung 
With  Juan's  smiles  and  tears)  his  natal  ray 

Of  genius  inextinguishably  young, — 

An  Eos  through  those  mists  proclaiming  day. 


How  then,  when  to  his  ear  came  Hellas'  cry, 
He  shred  the  garlands  of  the  wild  night's  feast, 

And  rose  a  chief,  to  lead  —  alas,  to  die 

And  leave  men  mourning  for  that  music  ceased  ! 


America!     When  nations  for  thy  knell 
Listened,  one  prophet  oracled  thy  part : 

Now,  in  thy  morn  of  strength,  remember  well 
The  bard  whose  chant  foretold  thee  as  thou  art. 


Sky,  mount,  and  forest,  and  high-sounding  main, 
The  storm-cloud's  vortex,  splendor  of  the  day, 

Gloom     of   the     night,  —  with     these    abide     his 

strain,  — 
And  these  are  thine,  though  he  has  passed  away  ; 


Their  elemental  force  had  roused  to  might 

Great    Nature's    child    in    this    her   realm    su 
preme,  — 

128 


BYRON 


From  their  commingling  he  had  guessed  aright 
The  plenitude  of  all  we  know  or  dream. 


Read  thou  aright  his  vision  and  his  song, 

That  this  enfranchised  spirit  of  the  spheres 
May   know  his  name    henceforth    shall    take    no 

wrong, 

Outbroadening  still  yon  ocean  and  these  years  ! 
1888 

129 


YALE   ODE   FOR   COMMENCEMENT 
DAY 


HARK  !   through  the  archways  old 

High  voices  manifold 
Sing  praise  to  our  fair  Mother,  praise  to  Yale ! 

The  Muses'  rustling  garments  trail ; 
White  arms,  with  myrtle  and  with  laurel  wound, 

Bring  crowns  to  her,  the  Crowned ! 
Youngest  and  blithest,  and  awaited  long, 
The  heavenly  maid,  sweet  Music's  child  divine, 
With  golden  lyre  and  joy  of  choric  song 

Leads  all  the  Sisters  Nine. 


ii 


In  the  gray  of  a  people's  morn, 
In  the  faith  of  the  years  to  be, 

The  sacred  Mother  was  born 

On  the  shore  of  the  fruitful  sea ; 
130 


YALE    ODE    FOR    COMMENCEMENT    DAY 

By  the  shore  she  grew,  and  the  ancient  winds  of 

the  East 
Made  her  brave  and  strong,  and  her  beauteous  youth 

increased 
Till   the   winds  of  the  West,  from   a   wondrous 

land, 
From  the  strand  of  the  setting  sun  to  the  sea  of 

her  sunrise  strand, 
From    fanes    which    her    own    dear    hand    hath 

planted  in  grove  and  mead  and  vale, 
Breathe  love  from  her  countless  sons  of  might  to 

the  Mother  —  breathe  praise  to  Yale. 


in 


Mother  of  Learning  !  thou  whose  torch 
Starward  uplifts,  afar  its  light  to  bear,  — 
Thine  own  revere  thee  throned  within  thy  porch, 

Rayed  with  thy  shining  hair. 
The  youngest  know  thee  still  more  young,  — 
The  stateliest,  statelier  yet  than  prophet-bard  hath 

sung. 

O  mighty  Mother,  proudly  set 
Beside  the  far-inreaching  sea, 
None  shall  the  trophied  Past  forget 
Or  doubt  thy  splendor  yet  to  be ! 
1895 


"UBI   SUNT   QUI   ANTE   NOS  ? " 

READ     AT     THE     SEMI-CENTENNIAL      MEETING     OF 
THE    CENTURY    ASSOCIATION,  JANUARY  13,  1897 

How    now    are  the  Others   faring?     Where    sit 

They  all  in  state  ? 
And  is  there  a  token  that  somewhere,  beyond  the 

muffled  gate, 
The  vanished  and  unreturning,  whose  names  our 

memories  fill, 
Are  holding  their  upper  conclave  and  are  of  the 

Century  still  ? 


Is  it  all  a  fancy  that  somewhere,  that  somehow, 
the  mindful  Dead, 

From  the  first  that  made  his  exit  to  the  latest  kins 
man  sped, — 

Their  vision  ourselves  unnoting,  their  shapes  by 
ourselves  unseen, — 

Have  gathered  like  us,  together  this  night  in  that 
strange  demesne? 
132 


UUBI    SUNT    qUI    ANTE    NOS?" 

That  the  astral  world's  telepathy  along  their  aisles 
of  light 

Has  summoned  our  brave  immortals,  this  selfsame 
mortal  night, 

All  in  that  rare  existence  where  thoughts  a  sub 
stance  are, 

To  their  native  planet's  aura,  from  journeyings 
near  and  far; 


And  that  now  with  forms  made  over,  and  life  as 

jocund  and  young 
As  when  they  here  kept  wassail  and  joined  in  the 

catches  sung, 
They  have  met  in  the  ancient  fashion,  and  now 

in  the  old-time  speech 
Are  chanting  their  Vivat  Centuria  just  out  of  our 

hearing's  reach  ? 


Yes,  O  yes,  —  as   the    pictured  ghosts  of  Huns 
war  on  in  middle  air 

With  a  fiercer  battle-hunger   from   the  field   up- 
flinging  there,  — 

And  since  the  things  we  have  chosen  from  all,  as 
most  of  worth 

Forever  here  and  hereafter,  cease  not  with  the  end 
of  Earth ; 

133 


"UBI    SUNT    QJJI    ANTE    NOS?" 

Since  joy  and  knowledge  and  beauty,  and  the  love 

of  man  to  man 
Passing  the  love  of  women,  the  links  of  our  chain 

began, — 
Yea,  even  as  these  are  ceaseless,  so  they  who  were 

liegemen  here 
Hark  back  and  are  all  Centurions  this  night  of  the 

fiftieth  year  ! 


Yes,  the  draftsmen  and  craftsmen  have  fashioned 
with  a  dream's  compelling  force 

The  Century's  lordlier  temple,  have  builded  it 
course  on  course, 

And  a  luminiferous  ether  floods  the  great  assembly- 
hall 

Where  the  scintillant  "  C.  A."  colophon  burns 
high  in  the  sight  of  all. 


The  painters  have  hung  from  end  to  end  cloud- 
canvases  ablaze 

With  that  color -scheme  from  us  hidden  in  the 
ultra-violet  rays, 


"UBI    SUNT    QJJI    ANTE    NOS?" 

With  the  new  chiaroscuro  of  things  that  each  way 
face, 

And  the  in-and-out  perspective  of  their  four-dimen 
sioned  space. 


O,  to  hear  the  famed  Cantators  upraise  the  mighty 

chant, 
With  their  bass  transposed  to  the  rumbling  depth 

below  our  octaves  scant, 
And  a  tenor  of  those  Elysian  notes  "  too  fine  for 

mortal  ear," 
Yet  tuned  to  the  diapason  of  this  dear  old  darkling 

sphere  ! 


And  O,  to  catch  but  a  glimpse  of  the  company 

thronged  around — 
The  scholars  that  know  it  all  at  last,  the  poets 

finally  crowned  ! 
There  the  blithe  divines,  that  fear  no   more  the 

midnight  chimes,  sit  each 
With  his  halo  tilted  a  trifle,  and  his  harp  at  easy 

reach ; 

135 


"UBI    SUNT    QJJI    ANTE    NOS?" 

There  all  the  jolly  Centurions  of  high  or  low  de 
gree, 

This  night  of  nights,  as  in  early  time,  foregather 
gloriously,  — 

Come  back,  mayhap,  from  Martian  meads,  from 
many  an  orb  come  back, 

Full  sure  the  cheer  they  cared  for  here  this  night 
shall  have  no  lack; 


For  they  know  the  jovial  servitors  have  mingled  a 
noble  brew 

Of  the  tipple  men  call  nectarean,  the  pure  celes 
tial  dew, 

And  are  passing  around  ambrosial  cakes,  while  the 
incense-clouds  arise 

Of  something  akin  to  those  earthly  fumes  not  even 
the  Blest  despise. 


And  yet  —  and  yet  —  could  we  listen,  we  might 

o'erhear  them  say 
They  would  barter  a  year  of  Aidenn  to  be  here 

for  a  night  and  a  day ; 
And  if  one  of  us  yearns  to  follow  the  paths  that 

thitherward  wend  — 
Let  him  rest  content,  —  let  him  have  no  fear,  — 

he  verily  shall  in  the  end. 

•36 


"UBI    SUNT    qUI    ANTE    NOS?" 


Then  not  for  the  quick  alone  this  hour  unbar  the 

entrance  gate, 
But  a  health  to  the  brethren  gone  before,  however 

they  hold  their  state  ! 
Nor  think   it   all  fancy  that   to  our  hearts  there 

comes  an  answering  thrill 
From  the  Dead  that  echo  our  Vivats  and  are  of 

the  Century  still. 

137 


IV 
THE    CARIB   SEA 


KENNST  DU? 

Do  you  know  the  blue  of  the  Carib  Sea 

Far  out  where  there  's  nothing  but  sky  to  bound 

The  gaze  to  windward,  the  glance  to  lee,  — 

More  deep  than  the  bluest  spaces  be 

Betwixt  white  clouds  in  heaven's  round  ? 

Have  you  seen  the  liquid  lazuli  spread 

From  edge  to  edge,  so  wondrous  blue 

That  your  footfall's  trust  it  might  almost  woo, 

Were  it  smooth  and  low  for  one  to  tread  ? 

So  clear  and  warm,  so  bright,  so  dark, 

That  he  who  looks  on  it  can  but  mark 

'Tis  a  different  tide  from  the  far-away 

Perpetual  waters,  old  and  gray, 

And  can  but  wonder  if  Mother  Earth 

Has  given  a  younger  ocean  birth. 


Do  you  know  how  surely  the  trade-wind  blows 
To  west-sou'west,  through  the  whole  round  year  ? 
How,  after  the  hurricane  comes  and  goes, 
For  nine  fair  moons  there  is  naught  to  fear  ? 
141 


THE    CARIB    SEA 

How  the  brave  wind  carries  the  tide  before 

Its  breath,  and  on  to  the  southwest  shore  ? 

How  the  Caribbean  billows  roll, 

One  after  the  other,  and  climb  forever,  — 

The  yearning  waves  of  a  shoreless  river 

That  never,  never  can  reach  its  goal  ? 

They  follow,  follow,  now  and  for  aye, 

One  after  the  other,  brother  and  brother, 

And  their  hollow  crests  half  hide  the  play 

Of  light  where  the  sun's  red  sword  thrusts  home 

But  still  in  a  tangled  shining  chain 

They  quiver  and  fall  and  rise  again, 

And  far  before  them  the  wind-borne  spray 

Is  shaken  on  from  their  froth  and  foam,  — 

And  for  leagues  beyond,  in  gray  and  rose, 

The  sundown  shimmering  distance  glows ! 

—  So  bright,  so  swift,  so  glad,  the  sea 

That  girts  the  isles  of  Caribbee. 


Do  you  know  the  green  of  those  island  shores 
By  the  morning  sea-breeze  fanned  ? 
(The  tide  on  the  reefs  that  guard  them  roars  — 
Then  slips  by  stealth  to  the  sand.) 
Have  you  found  the  inlet,  cut  between 
Like  a  rift  across  the  crescent  moon, 
And  anchored  off  the  dull  lagoon 
Close  by  forest  fringes  green,  — 
142 


KENNST    DU? 

Cool  and  green,  save  for  the  lines 
Of  yellow  cocoa-trunks  that  lean, 
Each  in  its  own  wind-nurtured  way, 
And  bend  their  fronds  to  the  wanton  vines 
Beneath  them  all  astray  ? 


Here  is  no  mangrove  warp-and-woof 
From  which  a  vapor  lifts  aloof, 
But  on  the  beaches  smooth  and  dry 
Red-lipped  conch-shells  lie  — 
Even  at  the  edge  of  that  green  wall 
Where  the  shore-grape's  tendriled  runners  spread 
And  purple  trumpet-creepers  fall, 
And  the  frangipani's  clusters  shed 
Their  starry  sweets  withal. 
The  silly  cactuses  writhe  around, 
Yet  cannot  choose  but  in  grace  to  mingle, 
This  side  the  twittering  waters  sound, 
On  the  other  opens  a  low  green  dingle, 
And  between  your  ship  and  the  shore  and  sky 
The  frigate-birds  like  fates  appear, 
The  flapping  pelican  feeds  about, 
The  tufted  cardinals  sing  and  fly. 
So  fair  the  shore,  one  has  no  fear ; 
And  the  sailors,  gathered  forward,  shout 
With  strange  glad  voices  each  to  each,  — 
Though  well  the  harbor's  depth  they  know 
143 


THE    CARIB    SEA 

And  the  craven  shark  that  lurks  below, 
"  Ho  !   let  us  over,  and  strike  out 
Until  we  stand  upon  the  beach, 
Until  that  wonderland  we  reach  !  " 
—  So  green,  so  fair,  the  island  lies, 
As  if  't  were  adrift  from  Paradise. 
144 


SARGASSO   WEED 

OUT  from  the  seething  Stream 

To  the  steadfast  trade-wind's  courses, 
Over  the  bright  vast  swirl 

Of  a  tide  from  evil  free,  — 
Where  the  ship  has  a  level  beam, 

And  the  storm  has  spent  his  forces, 
And  the  sky  is  a  hollow  pearl 

Curved  over  a  sapphire  sea* 


Here  it  floats  as  of  old, 

Beaded  with  gold  and  amber, 
Sea-frond  buoyed  with  fruit, 

Sere  as  the  yellow  oak, 
Long  since  carven  and  scrolled, 

Of  some  blue-ceiled  Gothic  chamber 
Used  to  the  viol  and  lute 

And  the  ancient  belfry's  stroke. 


Eddying  far  and  still 

In  the  drift  that  never  ceases, 
HS 


THE    CARIB    SEA 

The  dun  Sargasso  weed 

Slips  from  before  our  prow, 

And  its  sight  makes  strong  our  will, 
As  of  old  the  Genoese's, 

When  he  stood  in  his  hour  of  need 
On  the  Santa  Maria's  bow. 


Ay,  and  the  winds  at  play 

Toy  with  these  peopled  islands, 
Each  of  itself  as  well 

Naught  but  a  brave  New  World, 
Where  the  crab  and  sea-slug  stay 

In  the  lochs  of  its  tiny  highlands, 
And  the  nautilus  moors  his  shell 

With  his  sail  and  streamers  furled. 


Each  floats  ever  and  on 

As  the  round  green  Earth  is  floating 
Out  through  the  sea  of  space 

Bearing  our  mortal  kind, 
Parasites  soon  to  be  gone, 

Whom  others  be  sure  are  noting, 
While  to  their  astral  race 

We  in  our  turn  are  blind. 


CASTLE    ISLAND    LIGHT 


BETWEEN  the  outer  Keys, 

Where  the  drear  Bahamas  be, 

Through  a  crooked  pass  the  vessels  sail 
To  reach  the  Carib  Sea. 


'T  is  the  Windward  Passage,  long  and  dread, 

From  bleak  San  Salvador; 
(Three  thousand  miles  the  wave  must  roll 

Ere  it  wash  the  Afric  shore). 


Here  are  the  coral  reefs 

That  hold  their  booty  fast ; 

The  sea-fan  blooms  in  groves  beneath, 
And  sharks  go  lolling  past. 


Hither  and  yon  the  sand-bars  lie 
Where  the  prickly  bush  has  grown, 

H7 


THE    CARIB    SEA 


And  where  the  rude  sponge-fisher  dwells 
In  his  wattled  hut,  alone. 


Southward,  amid  the  strait, 
Is  the  Castle  Island  Light ; 

Of  all  that  bound  the  ocean  round 
It  has  the  loneliest  site. 


ii 


'Twixt  earth  and  heaven  the  waves  are  driven 

Sorely  upon  its  flank; 
The  light  streams  out  for  sea-leagues  seven 

To  the  Great  Bahama  Bank. 


A  girded  tower,  a  furlong  scant 
Of  whitened  sand  and  rock, 

And  one  sole  being  the  waters  seeing, 
Where  the  gull  and  gannet  flock. 


He  is  the  warder  of  the  pass 

That  mariners  must  find ; 
His  beard  drifts  down  like  the  ashen  moss 

Which  hangs  in  the  southern  wind. 
148 


CASTLE    ISLAND    LIGHT 

The  old  man  hoar  stands  on  the  shore 

And  bodes  the  withering  gale, 
Or  wonders  whence  from  the  distant  world 

Will  come  the  next  dim  sail. 


From  the  Northern  Main,  from  England, 
From  France,  the  craft  go  by ; 

Yet  sometimes  one  will  stay  her  course 
That  must  his  wants  supply. 


in 


In  a  Christmas  storm  the  "  Claribel "  struck 
At  night,  on  the  Pelican  Shoal, 

But  the  keeper's  wife  heard  not  the  guns 
And  the  bell's  imploring  toll. 


She  died  ere  the  gale  went  down, 
Wept  by  her  daughters  three  — 

Sun-flecked,  yet  fair,  with  their  English  hair, 
Nymphs  of  the  wind  and  sea. 


With  sail  and  oar  some  island  shore 
At  will  their  skiffs  might  gain, 
149 


THE    C  ARIB    SEA 


But  they  never  had  known  the  kiss  of  man, 
Nor  had  looked  on  the  peopled  main, 


Nor  heard  of  the  old  man  Atlas, 
Who  holds  the  unknown  seas, 

And  the  golden  fruit  that  is  guarded  well 
By  the  young  Hesperides. 


IV 


Who  steers  by  Castle  Island  Light 

May  hear  the  seamen  tell 
How  one,  the  mate,  alone  was  saved 

From  the  wreck  of  the  "  Claribel  j  " 


And  how  for  months  he  tarried 
With  the  keeper  on  the  isle, 

And  for  each  of  the  blue-eyed  daughters 
Had  ever  a  word  or  a  smile. 


Between  the  two  that  loved  him 
He  lightly  made  his  choice, 
150 


CASTLE    ISLAND    LIGHT 

And  betimes  a  chance  ship  took  them  off 
From  the  father's  sight  and  voice. 


The  second  her  trouble  could  not  bear,  — 
So  wild  her  thoughts  had  grown 

That  she  fled  with  a  lurking  smuggler's  crew. 
But  whither  was  never  known. 


Then  the  keeper  aged  like  Lear, 
Left  with  one  faithful  child ; 

But  't  was  ill  to  see  a  maid  so  young 
Who  never  sang  or  smiled. 


JT  is  sad  to  bide  with  an  old,  old  man, 
And  between  the  wave  and  sky 

To  watch  all  day  the  sea-fowl  play, 
While  lone  ships  hasten  by. 


There  came,  anon,  the  white  full  moon 
That  rules  the  middle  year, 


THE    CARIB    SEA 


Before  whose  sheen  the  lesser  stars 
Grow  pale  and  disappear. 


It  glistened  down  on  a  lighthouse  tower, 

A  beach  on  either  hand, 
And  the  features  wan  of  a  gray  old  man 

Digging  a  grave  in  the  sand. 
152 


CHRISTOPHE 
(CAPE  HAYTIEN) 

"  KING  HENRI  is  King  Stephen's  peer, 

His  breeches  cost  him  but  a  crown  !  " 
So  from  the  old  world  came  the  jeer 

Of  them  who  hunted  Toussaint  down 
But  what  was  this  grim  slave  that  swept 
The  shambles,  then  to  greatness  leapt  ? 
Their  counterfeit  in  bronze,  a  thing 
To  mock,  —  or  every  inch  a  king  ? 


On  San-Souci's  defiant  wall 

His  people  saw,  against  the  sky, 

Christophe,  —  a  shape  the  height  of  Saul, 
A  chief  who  brooked  no  rivals  nigh. 

Right  well  he  aped  the  antique  state ; 

His  birth  was  mean,  his  heart  was  great ; 

No  azure  filled  his  veins,  —  instead, 

The  Afric  torrent,  hot  and  red. 
'53 


THE    CARIB    SEA 

He  built  far  up  the  mountain-side 
A  royal  keep,  and  walled  it  round 

With  towers  the  palm-tops  could  not  hide ; 
The  ramparts  toward  ocean  frowned ; 

Beneath,  within  the  rock-hewn  hold, 

He  heaped  a  monarch's  store  of  gold ; 

He  made  his  nobles  in  a  breath ; 

He  held  the  power  of  life  and  death ; 


And  here  through  torrid  years  he  ruled 
The  Haitian  horde,  a  despot  king, — 

Mocked  Europe's  pomp,  —  her  minions  schooled 
In  trade  and  war  and  parleying, — 

Yet  reared  his  dusky  heirs  in  vain  : 

To  end  the  drama,  Fate  grew  fain, 

Uprose  a  rebel  tide,  and  flowed 

Close  to  the  threshold  where  he  strode. 


"  And  now  the  Black  must  exit  make, 

A  craven  at  the  last,"  they  say  : 
Not  so,  —  Christophe  his  leave  will  take 

The  long  unwonted  Roman  way. 
"  Ho  !   Ho  !  "  cried  he,  "  the  day  is  done, 
And  I  go  down  with  the  setting  sun  !  " 
A  pistol-shot,  —  no  sign  of  fear,  — 
So  died  Christophe  without  a  peer. 
154 


LA   SOURCE 

(PORT-AU-PRINCE) 

A  HAUNT  the  mountain  roadside  near, 
Wherefrom  the  cliff  that  rose  behind 
Kept  back,  through  all  the  tropic  year, 
The  sundrouth  and  the  whirling  wind : 
These  here  could  never  entrance  find ; 
Perpetual  summer  balm  it  knew ; 
And  skyward,  thick-set  boughs  entwined 
Their  coil,  where  birds  made  sweet  ado, 
And   heaven    through    glossy  leaves  was    deepest 
blue. 


Twin  relics  of  some  forest  grim, 
The  last  of  their  primeval  race 
Left  scatheless,  knit  them  limb  with  limb 
Above  the  reaches  of  that  place  ; 
Time's  hand  against  their  high  embrace 
For  seeming  centuries  had  striven, 
But  yet  they  grappled  face  to  face, 
155 


THE    CARIB    SEA 


Still  from  their  olden  guard  undriven 
Though  at  their  feet  the  cliff  itself  was  riven. 


And  from  the  rift  a  stream  outflowed, 
The  fountain  of  that  cloven  grot,  — 
La  Source  !     Along  the  downward  road 
It  speeded,  pitying  the  lot 
Of  dwellers  in  each  hot-roofed  spot 
Which  fiery  noonday  held  in  rule,  — 
Yet  at  the  start  neglected  not 
To  broaden  into  one  deep  pool 
Beneath  those  trees  its  staunchless  waters  cool. 


Near  the  green  edge  of  this  recess 
We  made  our  halt,  and  marvelled,  more 
Than  at  its  sudden  loveliness, 
To  find  reborn  that  life  of  yore 
When  ocean  to  Nausicaa  bore 
The  wanderer  from  Calypso  strayed,  — 
For  here  swart  dames,  and  beldames  hoar, 
With  many  a  round-limbed  supple  maid, 
Plashed  in  the  pool  and  eyed  us  unafraid. 


The  simple,  shameless  washers  there, 
Dusk  children  of  the  Haitian  sun, 
156 


LA    SOURCE 

Bent  to  the  work  their  bodies,  bare 
And  brown,  nor  thought  our  gaze  to  shun,  — 
Save  that  an  elfish  withered  one, 
Scolding  the  white-toothed  girls,  set  free 
Her  tongue,  and  bade  them  now  have  done 
With  saucy  pranks,  nor  wanton  be 
Before  us  stranger  folk  from  over  sea. 


But  on  the  sward  one  rose  full  length 
From  her  sole  covering,  and  stood 
Defiant  in  the  beauteous  strength 
Of  nature  unabashed  :  a  nude 
And  wilding  slip  of  womanhood. 
Now  for  the  master-hand,  that  shaped 
The  Indian  Hunter  in  his  wood, 
To  mould  that  lissome  form  undraped 
Ere  from  its  grace  the  sure  young  lines  escaped  ! 


Straight  as  the  aloe's  crested  shoot 
That  blooms  a  golden  month  and  dies, 
She  stayed  an  instant,  with  one  foot 
On  tiptoe,  poising  statue-wise, 
And  stared,  and  mocked  us  with  her  eyes,  — 
While  rippling  to  her  hip's  firm  swell 
The  mestee  hair,  that  so  outvies 
"57 


THE    CARIB    SEA 


Europe's  soft  mesh,  and  holds  right  well 
The  Afric  sheen,  in  one  dark  torrent  fell. 


//,  Ang'elique  !  we  heard  them  scream,  — 
What,  could  that  child,  in  twice  her  years, 
Change  to  their  like  from  this  fair  dream  ! 
Fi  done  !  —  But  she,  as  one  who  hears 
And  cares  not,  at  her  leisure  nears 
The  pool,  and  toward  her  mates  at  play 
Plunges,  —  and  laughter  filled  our  ears 
As  from  La  Source  we  turned  away 
And  rode  again  into  the  glare  of  day. 


TO   L.    H.   S. 

LOVE,  these  vagrant  songs  may  woo  you 
Once  again  from  winter's  ruth,  — 
Once  more  quicken  memories  failing 
Of  those  days  when  we  went  sailing, 
Eager  as  when  first  I  knew  you, 
Sailing  after  my  lost  youth. 


My  lost  youth,  for  in  my  sight  you 

Had  yourself  forborne  to  change 
Since  that  age  when  we,  together, 
Made  such  mock  of  wind  and  weather, 
Sought  alone  what  might  delight  you,  — 
Ah,  how  sweet,  how  far,  how  strange ! 


Yet,  though  scarcely  else  anear  you 

Than  Tithonus  to  Aurore, 
I  am  still  by  Time  requited, 
Still  can  vaunt,  as  when  we  plighted, 
159 


THE    CARIB    SEA 


Sight  to  see  you,  ear  to  hear  you, 
Voice  to  sing  you,  if  no  more. 


And  in  thought  I  yet  behold  you 

Nearing  the  enchanted  zone,  — 
(With  delight  of  life  the  stronger 
As  we  sailed,  each  blue  league  longer, 
Toward  the  shore  of  which  I  told  you, 
And  the  stars  myself  had  known),  — 


Wondering  at  the  hue  beneath  you 
Of  the  restless  shining  waves, 
Asking  of  the  palm  and  coral,  — 
Of  the  white  cascades  —  the  floral 
Ridges  waiting  long  to  wreathe  you 

With  the  blooms  our  Norseland  craves. 


Winds  enow  since  then  have  kissed  you, 

On  their  way  to  bless  or  blight ; 
Little  may  these  songs  recover 
Of  that  dream-life  swiftly  over,  — 
Nay,  but  Love,  a  moment  list  you, 

Since  none  else  can  set  them  right. 
1 60 


TO    L.    H.    S. 

More  and  ever  more,  the  while  you 

Sailed  where  every  distance  gleams, 
Passed  all  sorrow,  died  all  anger, 
In  the  clime  of  love  and  languor, 
Till  we  reached  the  mist-hung  isle  you 
Called  the  haunted  Isle  of  Dreams. 
161 


JAMAICA 

I  KNOW  an  island  which  the  sun 

Stays  in  his  course  to  shine  upon, 

As  if  it  were  for  this  green  isle 

Alone  he  kept  his  fondest  smile. 

Long  his  rays  delaying  flood 

Its  remotest  solitude, 

Mountain,  dell,  and  palmy  wood, 

And  the  coral  sands  around 

That  hear  the  blue  sea's  chiming  sound. 


It  is  a  watered  island,  one 
The  upland  rains  pour  down  upon. 
Oft  the  westward-floating  cloud 
To  some  purple  crest  is  bowed, 
While  the  tangled  vapors  seek 
To  escape  from  peak  and  peak, 
Yield  themselves,  and  break,  or  glide 
Through  deep  forests  undescried, 
Mourning  their  lost  pathway  wide. 
162 


JAMAICA 

In  this  land  of  woods  and  streams 
Ceaseless  Summer  paints  her  dreams 
White,  bewildered  torrents  fall, 
Dazzled  by  her  morning  beams, 
With  an  outcry  musical 
From  the  ridges,  plainward  all ; 
Mists  of  pearl,  arising  there, 
Mark  their  courses  in  the  air, 
Sunlit,  magically  fair. 


Here  the  pilgrim  may  behold 
How  the  bended  cocoa  waves 
When  at  eve  and  morn  a  breeze 
Blows  to  and  from  the  Carib  seas, 
How  the  lush  banana  leaves 
From  their  braided  trunk  unfold ; 
How  the  mango  wears  its  gold, 
And  the  sceptred  aloe's  bloom 
Glorifies  it  for  the  tomb. 


When  the  day  has  ended  quite, 
Splendor  fills  the  drooping  skies ; 
All  is  beauty,  naught  is  night. 
Then  the  Crosses  twain  arise, 
Southward  far,  above  the  deep, 

163 


THE    CARIB    SEA 


And  the  moon  their  light  outvies. 
Hark  !   the  wakened  lute  and  song 
That  to  this  fond  clime  belong, — 
All  is  music,  naught  is  sleep. 


Isle  of  plenty,  isle  of  love  ! 
In  the  low,  encircling  plain 
Laboring  Afric,  loaded  wain, 
Bearing  sweets  and  spices,  move ; 
On  the  happy  heights  above 
Love  his  seat  has  chosen  well, 
Dreamful  ease  and  silence  dwell, 
Life  is  all  entranced,  and  time 
Passes  like  a  tinkling  rhyme. 


Ah,  on  those  cool  heights  to  dwell 
Yielded  to  the  island's  spell ! 
There  from  some  low-whispering  mouth 
To  learn  the  secret  of  the  South, 
Or  to  watch  dark  eyes  that  close 
When  their  sleep  the  noondays  bring, 
(List,  the  palm  leaves  murmuring !) 
And  the  wind  that  comes  and  goes 
Smells  of  every  flower  that  blows. 
164 


JAMAICA 

Or  from  ocean  to  descry 
Green  plantations  sloping  nigh, 
Starry  peaks,  of  beryl  hewn, 
Whose  strong  footholds  hidden  lie 
Furlong  deep  beneath  the  sea ! 
Long  the  mariners  wistfully 
Landward  gaze,  and  say  aright, 
"  Under  sun  or  under  moon 
Earth  has  no  more  beauteous  sight !  " 


CREOLE   LOVER'S   SONG 

NIGHT  wind,  whispering  wind, 

Wind  of  the  Carib  sea  ! 
The  palms  and  the  still  lagoon 
Long  for  thy  coming  soon ; 
But  first  my  lady  find  : 
Hasten,  nor  look  behind  ! 

To-night  Love's  herald  be. 


The  feathery  bamboo  moves, 

The  dewy  plantains  weep ; 
From  the  jasmine  thickets  bear 
The  scents  that  are  swooning  there, 
And  steal  from  the  orange  groves 
The  breath  of  a  thousand  loves 
To  waft  her  ere  she  sleep. 


And  the  lone  bird's  tender  song 

That  rings  from  the  ceiba  tree, 
The  firefly's  light,  and  the  glow 
1 66 


CREOLE    LOVER    S    SONG 

Of  the  moonlit  waters  low, — 
All  things  that  to  night  belong 
And  can  do  my  love  no  wrong 
Bear  her  this  hour  for  me. 


Speed  thee,  wind  of  the  deep, 

For  the  cyclone  comes  in  wrath  ! 

The  distant  forests  moan ; 

Thou  hast  but  an  hour  thine  own,  — 

An  hour  thy  tryst  to  keep, 

Ere  the  hounds  of  tempest  leap 
And  follow  upon  thy  path. 


Whisperer,  tarry  a  space  ! 

She  waits  for  thee  in  the  night ; 
She  leans  from  the  casement  there 
With  the  star-blooms  in  her  hair, 
And  a  shadow  falls  like  lace 
From  the  fern-tree  over  her  face, 

And  over  her  mantle  white. 


Spirit  of  air  and  fire, 

To-night  my  herald  be ! 
Tell  her  I  love  her  well, 
167 


THE    CARIB    SEA 

And  all  that  I  bid  thee,  tell, 
And  fold  her  ever  the  nigher 
With  the  strength  of  my  soul's  desire, 
Wind  of  the  Carib  sea  ! 
1 68 


THE   ROSE   AND   THE   JASMINE 


Now  dies  the  rippling  murmur  of  the  strings 

That  followed  long,  half-striving  to  retake, 

The  burden  of  the  lover's  ended  song. 

Silence  !   but  we  who  listened  linger  yet, 

Two  of  the  soul's  near  portals  still  unclosed  — 

Sight  and  the  sense  of  odor.     At  our  feet, 

Beneath  the  open  jalousies,  is  spread 

A  copse  of  leaf  and  bloom,  a  knotted  wild 

Of  foliage  and  purple  flowering  vines, 

With  here  a  dagger-plant  to  pierce  them  through, 

And  there  a  lone  papaya  lifting  high 

Its  golden-gourded  cresset.     Night's  high  noon 

Is  luminous ;  that  swooning  silvery  hour 

When  the  concentrate  spirit  of  the  South 

Grows  visible  —  so  rare,  and  yet  so  filled 

With  tremulous  pulsation  that  it  seems 

All  light  and  fragrance  and  ethereal  dew. 


Two   vases  —  carved    from   some    dark,  precious 

wood, 

The  red-grained  heart  of  olden  trees  that  cling 
169 


THE    CARIB    SEA 

To  yonder  mountain  —  in  the  moonlight  cast 

Their  scrolls'  deep  shadows  on  the  glassy  floor. 

A  proud  exotic  Rose,  brought  from  the  North, 

Is  set  within  the  one ;  the  other  bears 

A  double  Jasmine  for  its  counter-charm. 

Here  on  their  thrones,  in  equal  high  estate, 

The  rivals  bloom  ;  and  both  have  drunk  the  dew, 

Tending  their  beauty  in  the  midnight  air, 

Until  their  sovereign  odors  meet  and  blend, 

As  voices  blend  that  whisper  melody, 

Now  each  distinct,  now  mingled  both  in  one : 


JASMINE 

I,  like  a  star,  against  the  woven  gloom 
Of  tresses  on  Dolores'  brow  shall  rest. 


ROSE 

And  I  one  happy,  happy  night  shall  bloom 
Twined  in  the  border  of  her  silken  vest. 


JASMINE 

Throughout  our  isle  the  guardian  winds  deprive 
Of  all  their  sweets  a  hundred  common  flowers, 

170 


THE    ROSE    AND    THE    JASMINE 

To   feed    my  heart   with   fragrance !      Lone  they 

live, 
And  drop  their  petals  far  from  trellised  bowers. 


ROSE 


Within  the  garden-plot  whence  I  was  borne 
No  rifled  sisterhood  became  less  fine ; 

My  wealth  made  not  the  violet  forlorn, 

And  near  me  climbed  the  fearless  eglantine. 


JASMINE 


Who  feels  my  breath  recalls  the  orange  court, 
The  terraced  walks  that  jut  upon  the  sea, 

The  water  in  the  moonlit  bay  amort, 

The  midnight  given  to  longing  and  to  me. 


ROSE 


Who    scents   my    blossoms    dreams    of  bordered 

meads 

Deep  down  the  hollow  of  some  vale  far  north, 
Where  Cuthbert  with  the  fair-haired  Hilda  pleads, 
And  overhead  the  stars  of  June  come  forth. 
171 


THE    CARIB    SEA 


JASMINE 


Me  with  full  hands  enamored  Manuel 

Gathers  for  dark-browed  Inez  at  his  side, 

And  both  to  love  are  quickened  by  my  spell, 
And  chide  the  day  that  doth  their  joys  divide. 


ROSE 


Nay,  but  all  climes,  all  tender  sunlit  lands 

From  whose  high  places  spring  the  palm  or  pine, 

Desire  my  gifts  to  grace  the  wedded  bands, 
And  every  home  for  me  has  placed  a  shrine. 


JASMINE 


Fold  up  thy  heart,  proud  virgin,  ay,  and  blush 
With  all  the  crimson  tremors  thou  canst  vaunt  ! 

My  yearning  waves  of  passion  onward  rush, 
And  long  the  lover's  wistful  memory  haunt. 


ROSE 


Pale  temptress,  the  night's  revel  be  thine  own, 
Till  love  shall  pall  and  rapture  have  its  fill ! 
172 


THE    ROSE    AND    THE    JASMINE 

The  morn's  fresh  light  still  finds  me  on  a  throne 
Where  care  is  not,  nor  blissful  pains  that  kill. 


JASMINE 
Sweet,  sweet  my  breath,  oh,  sweet  beyond  compare  ! 

ROSE 
Rare,  rare  the  splendors  of  my  regal  crown  ! 

BOTH 

Choose  which  thou  wilt,  bold  lover,  yet  beware 
Lest  to  a  luckless  choice  thou  bendest  down  ! 
'73 


FERN-LAND 


HITHER,  where  a  woven  roof 
Keeps  the  prying  sun  aloof 

From  wonderland, 
From  the  fairies  underland, — 
Hither,  where  strange  grasses  grow 
With  their  curling  rootlets  set 
'Twixt  the  black  roots  serpentine, 
Laurel  roots  that  twist  and  twine 
Toward  the  cloven  path  below 
Of  some  cloud-born  rivulet, — 

This  way  enter 

Fern-Land,  and  from  rim  to  centre 
All  its  secrets  shall  be  thine. 


ii 


Here  within  the  covert  see 
Fern-Land's  mimic  forestry ; 
Royal  tree-ferns 

'74 


FERN-LAND 

Canopy  the  nestling  wee  ferns 
That  with  every  pointed  frond 
Lend  their  lords  a  duteous  ear; 
Golden  ferns  a  sunshine  make  — 
Fleck  their  beauty  on  the  brake ; 
In  their  moonlight  close  beyond 
Silver  ferns  like  sprites  appear. 

Here  beholden, 

Purple,  silver,  green  and  golden, 
Mingle  for  their  own  sweet  sake. 


in 


Day's  sure  horologe  of  flowers 
Marks  in  turn  the  honeyed  hours 

Blossoms  dangle, 
Lithe  lianas  twist  and  tangle ; 
Here  on  the  lagetta  tree 
Laboring  elves  at  starlight  weave 
Filmy  bride-veils  of  its  spray, 
Shot  with  the  cocuya's  ray,  — 
For  in  fairy-land  we  be ! 
Look,  and  you  shall  well  believe 

Oberon  reigneth, 
And  Titania  disdaineth, 
Still,  to  yield  her  lord  his  way. 
175 


THE    CARIB    SEA 


IV 


Here,  unseen  by  grosser  light, 
Fairy-land,  at  noon  of  night 

Holidaying, 

Sallies  forth  in  fine  arraying; 
Elfin,  sylphide,  fay  and  gnome 
On  the  dew-tipped  ferns  disport, 
In  the  festooned  creepers  swing, 
Their  light  plumage  fluttering. 
Fern-Land  is  their  ancient  home, 
Here  the  monarch  holds  his  court, 

Puck  abideth ; 

Here  the  Queen  her  changeling  hideth, 
Ariel  doth  merrily  sing. 


Here,  when  Dian  shuns  the  sky, 
Swift  the  winged  watchmen  fly,  — 

Flash  their  torches 
In  and  out  mimosa  porches 
Till  the  first  pale  glint  of  morn  : 
Then  the  little  people  change 
Casque  and  doublet,  robe  and  sash, 
In  the  twinkling  of  a  lash, 
176 


FERN-LAND 

For  the  magic  mantles  worn 
Warily  where  mortals  range, 

And  beside  us 

Now  unseen,  with  glee  deride  us, 
Laugh  to  scorn  our  trespass  rash. 


VI 


Then  the  gnomes,  that  change  to  newts, 
Lurk  about  the  tree-fern's  roots  ; 

Their  commander 
Is  the  frog-mouthed  salamander 
Who  will  marshal  in  the  sun 
Red-backed  lizards  from  the  vines, 
Eft  and  newt  from  bog  and  spring,  — 
Many  a  crested,  horny  thing 
Sharp-eyed,  fearsome,  —  and  that  one 
With  the  loathly  spotted  lines  ! 

Mortal  heedeth 

Him,  whose  breath  of  poison  speedeth 
Them  that  chafe  the  elfin  king. 


VII 


Moths  above,  that  feed  on  dew, 
Flit  their  wings  of  gold  and  blue, — 
177 


THE    CARIB    SEA 

Fancy  guesses 

These  must  be  the  court-princesses : 
Others  are  in  durance  pent, 
Changed  to  orchids  for  their  tricks,  - 
Wantons  they,  who  must  remain 
All  day  long  in  beauteous  pain 
Till  stern  Oberon  relent, 
Pardon  grant,  and  seal  affix. 

Each  repineth 

Thus  until  the  monarch  dineth 
And,  content,  doth  loose  her  chain. 


VIII 

Would  you  had  the  fine,  fine  ear 
The  dragonfly's  recall  to  hear, — 

Tiny  words 

Of  the  vibrant  humming-birds 
That,  where  bloom  convolvuli, 
Round  the  dew-cups  whir  and  hover, 
Thrusting  each,  hour  after  hour, 
His  keen  bill  to  heart  o'  the  flower, 
As  some  mounted  knight  may  ply 
His  long  lance,  an  eager  lover, 

Through  deep  sedges, 
And  athrough  the  coppice  edges, 
Fain  to  reach  his  lady's  bower. 
178 


FERN-LAND 


IX 


Whilst  the  emerald  lancers  poise 
In  the  soft  air  without  noise, 

Brake  and  mould 
Hoard  their  marvels  manifold. 
There  the  armored  beetles  creep. 
Shrouding  in  unseemly  fear 
Each  his  shield  of  chrysoprase 
Lest  its  gleam  himself  betrays 
For  our  kind  to  seize  and  keep 
Prisoned  in  a  damsel's  ear. 

Each  one  stealeth 
Dumbly,  and  his  dull  way  feeleth 
Until  starlight  shall  appear. 


Step  you  soft,  be  mute  and  wary 
Lest  you  wake  the  lords  of  Faery  ! 

Motion  rude 

Fits  not  with  their  solitude: 
Else  the  spider  will  resent 
And  the  beetle  nip  you  well, 
Bete-rouge  in  your  neck  will  furrow, 
Garapata  dig  his  burrow  :  — 
179 


THE    CARIB    SEA 

Dread  the  wasp's  swift  punishment 
And  the  chegoe's  vengeance  fell : 

Well-defended, 

Fairies  sleep  till  day  hath  ended, — 

Leave  we  Fern-Land  and  its  spell. 

1 80 


MORGAN 

OH,  what  a  set  of  Vagabundos, 

Sons  of  Neptune,  sons  of  Mars, 
Raked  from  todos  otros  mundos, 

Lascars,  Gascons,  Portsmouth  tars, 
Prison  mate  and  dock-yard  fellow, 

Blades  to  Meg  and  Molly  dear, 
Off  to  capture  Porto  Bello 

Sailed  with  Morgan  the  Buccaneer ! 


Out  they  voyaged  from  Port  Royal 

(Fathoms  deep  its  ruins  be, 
Pier  and  convent,  fortress  loyal, 

Sunk  beneath  the  gaping  sea) ; 
On  the  Spaniard's  beach  they  landed, 

Dead  to  pity,  void  of  fear,  — 
Round  their  blood-red  flag  embanded, 

Led  by  Morgan  the  Buccaneer. 


Dawn  till  dusk  they  stormed  the  castle, 

Beat  the  gates  and  gratings  down  ; 

181 


THE    CARIB    SEA 

Then,  with  ruthless  rout  and  wassail, 
Night  and  day  they  sacked  the  town, 

Staved  the  bins  its  cellars  boasted, 
Port  and  Lisbon,  tier  on  tier, 

Quaffed  to  heart's  content,  and  toasted 
Harry  Morgan  the  Buccaneer : 


Stripped  the  church  and  monastery, 

Racked  the  prior  for  his  gold, 
With  the  traders'  wives  made  merry, 

Lipped  the  young  and  mocked  the  old, 
Diced  for  hapless  senoritas 

(Sire  and  brother  bound  anear),  — 
Juanas,  Lolas,  Manuelitas, 

Cursing  Morgan  the  Buccaneer. 


Lust  and  rapine,  flame  and  slaughter, 

Forayed  with  the  Welshman  grim : 

"  Take  my  pesos,  spare  my  daughter !  " 

"  Ha  !  ha  !  "  roared  that  devil's  limb, 
"  These  shall  jingle  in  our  pouches, 

She  with  us  shall  find  good  cheer." 
"  Lash  the  graybeard  till  he  crouches  !  " 
Shouted  Morgan  the  Buccaneer. 
182 


MORGAN 

Out  again  through  reef  and  breaker, 

While  the  Spaniard  moaned  his  fate, 
Back  they  voyaged  to  Jamaica, 

Flush  with  doubloons,  coins  of  eight, 
Crosses  wrung  from  Popish  varlets, 

Jewels  torn  from  arm  and  ear,  — 
Jesu  !   how  the  Jews  and  harlots 

Welcomed  Morgan  the  Buccaneer  ! 
183 


CAPTAIN   FRANCISCA 

OFF  Maracaibo's  wall 
The  squadron  lay  : 
The  dykes  are  carried  all 

With  storm  and  shout ! 
Le  Basque  and  Lolonnois 
On  land  their  crews  deploy, 
Through  all  that  ruthless  day 
The  Spaniards  rout. 


They  sack  the  captured  town 

Ere  set  of  sun  ; 
Their  blood-red  pennons  crown 

The  convent  tower : 
Then  Du  Plessis,  the  bold, 
Cries  :  "  Take  my  share  of  gold  ! 
For  me  this  pretty  one, 
This  cloister  flower  !  " 


Dice,  drink,  and  song,  the  while 
They  seek  anew 
184 


CAPTAIN    FRANCISCA 

The  filibusters'  isle, 

Tortuga's  port. 
Swift  was  the  craft  that  bore 
Francisca  from  her  shore ; 
Red-handed  were  its  crew 

And  grim  their  sport. 


Unbraided  fell  her  hair, 

A  tropic  cloud; 
Seven  days,  with  sob  and  prayer, 

She  mourned  the  dead ; 
Like  rain  her  tears  fell ; 
But  Du  Plessis  right  well 
By  saint  and  relic  vowed 
As  on  they  sped. 


Ere  past  the  Mer  du  Nord 

She  smiled  apace ; 
Her  dark  eyes  evermore 

Sought  his  alone. 
Hot  wooed  the  Chevalier ; 
His  outlaw-priest  was  near : 
Forsworn  were  home  and  race, 
She  was  his  own. 
185 


THE    CARIB    SEA 

Now  cruel  Lolonnois 

And  fierce  Le  Basque 
Unlade  with  wolfish  joy 

The  cargazon; 
Land  all  their  ribald  braves, 
Captives  and  naked  slaves, 
With  many  a  bale  and  cask, 
By  rapine  won ; 


Armor  and  altar-plate 

Brought  over  sea : 
Pesos,  a  countless  weight, 
The  horde  divide  — 
To  each  an  equal  share, 
Else  blades  are  in  the  air ! 
Cries  Du  Plessis  :  "  For  me, 
My  ship,  and  bride  !  " 


They  sailed  the  Mer  du  Nord, 

The  Carib  Sea, 
Whose  galleons  fled  before 

The  Frenchman's  crew ; 
But,  in  one  deadly  fight, 
A  swivel  aimed  aright 

Brought  down  young  Du  Plessis, 
Shot  through  and  through. 
1 86 


CAPTAIN    FRAN  CISC  A 

Wild  heart  of  France,  in  pride 

And  ruin  bred ! 
Against  a  heart  he  died, 

As  brave,  as  free. 
Sternly  she  bade  his  men 
First  sink  the  prize,  and  then 
Name  one  that  in  his  stead 
Their  chief  should  be. 


Each  red-shirt  laid  his  hand 

Upon  the  Cross, 
Swearing,  at  her  command, 
Vengeance  to  wreak ; 
To  scour  the  blue  sea  there 
And  seek  the  Spaniards'  lair, 
From  Gracias  a  Dios 
To  Porto  Rique. 


His  corse  the  deep  she  gave, 

Her  life  to  hate ; 
Upon  the  land  and  wave 

Brought  sudden  fear: 
No  bearded  Capitan, 
Since  first  their  woes  began 
(The  orphaned  nifias  prate), 
Cost  them  so  dear  ! 
187 


THE    CARIB    SEA 

From  Maracaibo's  Bay 

Anon  put  out 
A  frigate  to  waylay 

This  ranger  dark. 
It  crossed  the  Mer  du  Nord, 
And,  off  San  Salvador, 

Stayed,  with  defiance  stout, 
Francisca's  barque. 


They  grappled  stern  and  prow 

Till  the  guns  kissed  ! 
Girt  like  her  rovers,  now 

She  bids  them  board : 
The  first  her  blade  had  shorn 
Was  her  own  brother  born. 
Blindly  she  smote,  nor  wist 
Whose  life-stream  poured. 


Yet,  as  he  fell,  one  ball 

His  sure  aim  sped. 
Her  lips  the  battle-call 

Essay  in  vain. 

Then  deathful  stroke  on  stroke, 
Curses  and  powder-smoke, 
And  blood  like  water  shed 
Above  the  twain  ! 
188 


CAPTAIN    FRANCISCA 

No  quarter  give  or  take ! 

The  decks  are  gore ; 
Fresh  gaps  the  Spaniards  make, 

Charging  anew  : 
"  Death  to  the  buccaneer  ! 
No  more  our  fleet  shall  fear, 
That  sails  the  Mer  du  Nord, 
This  corsair  crew  ! " 


—  On  thy  lone  strand  was  made, 

San  Salvador, 
One  grave  where  two  were  laid 

For  bane  or  boon  ! 
The  last  of  all  their  race, 
To  each  an  equal  place. 

Guards  well  that  sombre  shore 
The  still  lagoon. 
189 


PANAMA 


Two  towers  the  old  Cathedral  lifts 

Above  the  sea-walled  town, — 
The  wild  pine  bristles  from  their  rifts, 

The  runners  dangle  down ; 
In  either  turret,  staves  in  hand, 
All  day  the  mongrel  ringers  stand 
And  sound,  far  over  bay  and  land, 
The  Bells  of  Panama. 


Loudly  the  cracked  bells,  overhead, 

Of  San  Francisco  ding, 
With  Santa  Ana,  La  Merced, 

Felipe,  answering; 

Banged  all  at  once,  and  four  times  four, 
Morn,  noon,  and  night,  the  more  and  more 
Clatter  and  clang  with  huge  uproar 

The  Bells  of  Panama. 


From  out  their  roosts  the  bellmen  see 
The  red-tiled  roofs  below,  — 
190 


PANAMA 

The  Plaza  folk  that  lazily 

To  mass  and  cockpit  go,  — 
Then  pound  afresh,  with  clamor  fell, 
Each  ancient,  broken,  thrice-blest  bell, 
Till  thrice  our  mouths  have  cursed  as  well 

The  Bells  of  Panama. 


The  Cordillera  guards  the  main 

As  when  Pedrarias  bore 
The  cross,  the  castled  flag  of  Spain, 

To  the  Pacific  shore ; 
The  tide  still  ebbs  a  league  from  quay, 
The  buzzards  scour  the  emptied  Bay  : 
"  There  's  a  heretic  to  singe  to-day,  —  • 
Come  out !    Come  out !  "  —  still  strive  to  say 

The  Bells  of  Panama. 
191 


MARTINIQUE   IDYL 


LOVE,  the  winds  long  to  lure  you  to  their  home, 
To  tempt  you  on  beneath  the  northern  arch  ! 

There,  in  the  swift,  bright  summer,  you  and  I 

May  loiter  where  the  elms'  deep  shadows  lie ; 

There,  by  our  household  fire,  bid  Yule-tide  come, 
And  winter's  cold,  and  every  gust  of  March. 


Stay,  O  stay  with  me  here,  and  chasten 
Tour  heart  still  longing  to  wander  more  ! 

Ever  the  restless  winds  are  winging, 

But  the  white-plumed  egrets,  skyward-springing, 

Over  our  blue  sea  hover,  and  hasten 
To  light  anew  on  their  own  dear  shore. 


The  lips  grow  tired  of  honey,  the  cloyed  ear 
Of  music,  and  of  light  the  eyelids  tire. 

I  weary  of  the  sky's  eternal  balm, 

The  ceaseless  droop  and  rustle  of  the  palm ; 

Only  your  whisper,  love,  constrains  me  here 
From  that  brave  clime  I  would  you  might  desire. 
192 


MARTINIQUE    IDYL 

Cold,  ah,  cold  is  the  sky,  and  leaden, 

There  where  earth  rounds  off  to  the  pole  ! 
Still  by  kisses  the  moments  number,  — 
Here  are  sweetness,  and  rest,  and  slumber, 
All  to  lighten  and  naught  to  deaden 

The  heart's  low  murmur,  the  captured  soul. 


Dear,  I  would  have  you  yearn,  amid  these  sweets, 
For   the  clear   breeze   that   blows  from  waters 

gray,— 

For  some  fresh,  northern  hill-top,  overgrown 
With  bush  and  bloom  and  brake  to  you  unknown  ; 
There,  while  the  hidden  thrush  his  song  repeats, 
The  rose  shall   tinge  your   cheek   the   livelong 

day. 


Stay  in  the  clime  where  living  is  loving 
And  the  lips  make  music  unaware ; 

Where  copses  thrill  with  the  wood-dove?  cooing, 

And  astral  moths  on  the  flight  are  wooing  ; 

While  the  light  colibris  poise  unmoving,  — 

Winged  Loves  that  mate  in  the  trembling  air. 


Nay,  love  itself  will  languish  in  the  days 

When  Summer  never  doffs  his  burning  helm. 
'93 


THE    CARIB    SEA 


No  lasting  links  to  bind  the  soul  are  wrought 
Where  passion  takes  no  deeper  cast  from  thought 
Ah  !   lend  your  ear  a  moment  to  the  lays 
Our  poets  sing  you  of  a  trustier  realm  ! 


Under  the  cocoa-fronds  that  flutter, 

Here,  where  the  lush  white  trumpet-flower 

And  the  curled  lianas  roof  us  over, 

So  that  no  evil  thing  discover 

The  sighs  we  mingle,  the  words  we  utter,  — 
Here,  oh  here,  let  us  make  our  bower  ! 


Love  is  not  perfect,  sweet,  that  like  a  dream 

Flows  on  without  a  forecast  or  a  pain  j 
Some  burden  must  betide  to  make  it  strong, 
Some  toil,  to  make  its  briefest  bliss  seem  long,  - 
Ay,  longer  than  the  crossing  of  a  stream 

Mist-haunted,  lit  by  moons  that  surely  wane. 


Here,  for  a  round  of  moons  unbroken, 

A  spell  that  holds  shall  your  loss  requite ; 
The  fleet,  sweet  moments  shall  pass  unreckoned 
And  all  to  our  constant  love  be  second, 
And  the  fragrant  lily  shall  be  our  token, 
That  folds  itself  on  the  waves  at  night. 
194 


MARTINI  CMJE    IDYL 

Yonder,  or  here,  and  whether  summer's  star 
Burn  overhead,  or  rains  of  autumn  fall ! 

Or  snows  of  winter  in  the  frozen  North? 
Love,  never  doubt  it ! 

Take  me  with  you  forth  ! 
And  oh,  forget  not  in  that  land  afar, 

I  am  your  summer,  — you,  my  life,  my  all! 
'95 


ASTRA   CAELI 


OVER  the  Carib  Sea  to-night 

The  stars  hang  low  and  near 

From  the  inexplicable  dome,  — 

Nearer,  more  close  to  sight, 

Than  from  the  skies  which  bound  the  stern  gray 

sea 
That  girts  our  northern  home. 


Aftward  the  sister  Crosses  be, 

And  yonder  to  the  lee 

One  burning  cresset  glows  —  a  sphere 

With  light  beyond  a  new  moon's  rays, 

As  if  some  world  of  vanished  souls  shone  clear 

And  straight  before  our  gaze. 


Were  now  his  spirit  bright,  — 
Not  veiled,  nor  dumb,  — 
My  brother's,  with  the  smile  of  years  ago, 
196 


ASTRA    CAELI 


Hither  to  glide  far  down  that  path  of  light, 

And  lift  a  hand,  and  say  aright,  — 

"  Thou  too  shalt  know 

The  orb  from  which  I  come  !  " 


—  Were  thus  'twixt  star  and  wave 

His  voice  to  reach  me  on  the  night-wind's  breath, 

I  would  not  lightly  leave  thee,  Dear, 

Nor  them  who  with  thee  here 

Make  of  Life's  best  for  me  the  choice  and  sum, — 

But  yet  might  not  bemoan  me,  as  the  slave 

Condemned,  who  hears  the  call  to  death  ; 

For  that  strange  heralding 

Even  of  itself  would  answer  all,  —  would  prove 

Life  but  a  voyage  such  as  this,  and  bring 

To  our  adventuring 

Its  gage  of  the  immortal  boon, 

Promise  of  after  joy  and  toil  and  love ; 

And  I  would  yield  me,  as  the  bird  takes  wing 

Knowing  its  mate  must  follow  sure  and  soon. 


Ay,  —  but  the  trackless  spirit 
Comes  not,  nor  is  there  utterance  or  sign 
Of  all  we  would  divine 
Vouchsafed  from  the  unanswering  dome : 
197 


THE    CARIB    SEA 

No  presence  east  or  west,  — 
Only  the  stars  —  the  restless  wondering  sea 
Bearing  us  back,  from  foam-tipped  crest  to  crest, 
Toward  the  one  small  part  ourselves  inherit 
Of  this  lone  darkling  world  —  and  call  our  home. 
198 


ARIEL 

IN  MEMORY  OF  PERCY  BYSSHE  SHELLEY  :  BORN 
ON  THE  FOURTH  OF  AUGUST,  A.  D.,   1792 


ARIEL 

WERT  thou  on  earth  to-day,  immortal  one, 
How  wouldst  thou,  in  the  starlight  of  thine 

eld, 
The  likeness  of  that  morntide  look  upon 

Which  men  beheld  ? 
How  might  it  move  thee,  imaged  in  time's  glass, 

As  when  the  tomb  has  kept 
Unchanged  the  face  of  one  who  slept 
Too  soon,  yet  moulders  not,  though  seasons  come 
and  pass  ? 


Has  Death  a  wont  to  stay  the  soul  no  less  ? 
And  art  thou  still   what  SHELLEY  was   ere- 

while,  — 
A  feeling  born  of  music's  restlessness  — 

A  child's  swift  smile 
Between  its  sobs  —  a  wandering  mist  that  rose 

At  dawn  —  a  cloud  that  hung 
The  Euganean  hills  among; 

Thy  voice,  a  wind-harp's  strain  in  some  enchanted 
close  ? 

201 


ARIEL 

Thyself  the  wild  west  wind,  O  boy  divine, 
Thou  fain  wouldst  be,  —  the  spirit  which  in 

its  breath 
Wooes  yet  the  seaward  ilex  and  the  pine 

That  wept  thy  death  ? 
Or  art  thou  still  the  incarnate  child  of  song 

Who  gazed,  as  if  astray 
From  some  uncharted  stellar  way, 
With  eyes  of  wonder  at  our  world  of  grief  and 
wrong  ? 


Yet  thou  wast  Nature's  prodigal ;  the  last 

Unto  whose  lips    her  beauteous  mouth    she 

bent 
An  instant,  ere  thy  kinsmen,  fading  fast, 

Their  lorn  way  went. 
What  though  the  faun  and  oread  had  fled  ? 

A  tenantry  thine  own, 
Peopling  their  leafy  coverts  lone, 
With  thee  still  dwelt  as  when  sweet   Fancy  was 
not  dead; 


Not  dead  as  now,  when  we  the  visionless, 
In  nature's  alchemy  more  woeful  wise, 
Say  that  no  thought  of  us  her  depths  possess,  — 
No  love,  her  skies. 

202 


ARIEL 

Not  ours  to  parley  with  the  whispering  June, 

The  genii  of  the  wood, 
The  shapes  that  lurk  in  solitude, 
The  cloud,  the  mounting  lark,  the  wan  and  wan 
ing  moon. 


For  thee  the  last  time  Hellas  tipped  her  hills 
With  beauty ;   India   breathed   her   midnight 

moan, 
Her  sigh,  her  ecstasy  of  passion's  thrills, 

To  thee  alone. 

Such  rapture  thine,  and  the  supremer  gift 
Which  can  the  minstrel  raise, 
Above  the  myrtle  and  the  bays, 
To  watch   the  sea  of  pain  whereon   our  galleys 
drift. 


Therefrom  arose  with  thee  that  lyric  cry, 

Sad  cadence  of  the  disillusioned  soul 
That  asks  of  heaven  and  earth  its  destiny,  — 

Or  joy  or  dole. 

Wild  requiem  of  the  heart  whose  vibratings, 
With  laughter  fraught,  and  tears, 
Beat  through  the  century's  dying  years 
While   for  one  more    dark  round  the  old   Earth 
plumes  her  wings. 
203 


ARIEL 

No  answer  came  to  thee ;  from  ether  fell 

No  voice,  no  radiant  beam ;  and  in  thy  youth 
How  were  it  else,  when  still  the  oracle 

Withholds  its  truth  ? 
We  sit  in  judgment,  —  we,  above  thy  page 

Judge  thee  and  such  as  thee, 
Pale  heralds,  sped  too  soon  to  see 
The  marvels  of  our  late  yet  unanointed  age ! 


The  slaves  of  air  and  light  obeyed  afar 

Thy  summons,  Ariel ;  their  elf-horns  wound 
Strange  notes  which  all  uncapturable  are 

Of  broken  sound. 
That  music  thou  alone  couldst  rightly  hear 

(O  rare  impressionist !  ) 
And  mimic.     Therefore  still  we  list 
To  its  ethereal  fall  in  this  thy  cyclic  year. 


Be  then  the  poet's  poet  still !   for  none 

Of  them   whose    minstrelsy  the    stars    have 

blessed 
Has  from  expression's  wonderland  so  won 

The  unexpressed, — 
So  wrought  the  charm  of  its  elusive  note 
204 


ARIEL 


On  us,  who  yearn  in  vain 
To  mock  the  paean  and  the  plain 
Of  tides  that  rise  and  fall  with  sweet  mysterious 
rote. 


Was  it  not  well  that  the  prophetic  few, 
So  long  inheritors  of  that  high  verse, 
Dwelt  in  the  mount  alone,  and  haply  knew 

What  stars  rehearse  ? 
But  now  with  foolish  cry  the  multitude 

Awards  at  last  the  throne, 
And  claims  thy  cloudland  for  its  own 
With  voices  all  untuned  to  thy  melodious  mood. 


What  joy  it  was  to  haunt  some  antique  shade 
Lone  as  thine  echo,  and  to  wreak  my  youth 
Upon  thy  song,  —  to  feel  the  throbs  which  made 

Thy  bliss,  thy  ruth,  — 
And  thrill  I  knew  not  why,  and  dare  to  feel 

Myself  an  heir  unknown 

To  lands  the  poet  treads  alone 

Ere  to  his  soul  the  gods  their  presence  quite  reveal ! 


Even  then,  like  thee,  I  vowed  to  dedicate 

My  powers  to  beauty  ;  ay,  but  thou  didst  keep 
205 


ARIEL 

The  vow,  whilst  I  knew  not  the  afterweight 

That  poets  weep, 
The  burthen  under  which  one  needs  must  bow, 

The  rude  years  envying 
My  voice  the  notes  it  fain  would  sing 
For  men  belike  to  hear,  as  still  they  hear  thee  now. 


Oh,  the  swift  wind,  the  unrelenting  sea ! 

They  loved  thee,  yet  they  lured  thee  unaware 
To  be  their  spoil,  lest  alien  skies  to  thee 

Should  seem  more  fair; 
They  had  their  will  of  thee,  yet  aye  forlorn 
Mourned  the  lithe  soul's  escape, 
And  gave  the  strand  thy  mortal  shape 
To  be  resolved  in  flame  whereof  its  life  was  born. 


Afloat  on  tropic  waves,  I  yield  once  more 

In  age  that  heart  of  youth  unto  thy  spell. 
The  century  wanes  :  thy  voice  thrills  as  of  yore 

When  first  it  fell. 

Would  that  I  too,  so  had  I  sung  a  lay 
The  least  upborne  of  thine, 
Had  shared  thy  pain  !     Not  so  divine 
Our  light,  as  faith  to  chant  the  far  auroral  day. 

ON  THE  CARIBBEAN  SEA 
(Revisited  1892) 

206 


INDEX   OF   TITLES 


INDEX    OF   TITLES 


Aaron  Burr's  Wooing,  81. 
Ad  Vigilem,  122. 
ARIEL,  201 
Astra  Caeli,  196. 

Byron,  125. 

Captain  Francisca,  184. 
CARIB  SEA,  THE,  139-198. 
Castle  Island  Light,  147. 
Centuria,  92. 
Christophe,  153. 
COMMEMORATIONS,  95-137. 
Constant  Heart,  The,  14. 
Corda  Concordia,  105. 
Cousin  Lucrece,  84. 
Creole  Lover's  Song,  166. 

Death  of  Bryant,  The,  97. 
Dutch  Patrol,  The,  72. 

"  Ergo  Iris,"  123. 
Eventide,  38. 

FalstafPs  Song,  65. 
Father  Jardine,  55. 
Fern-Land,  174. 
Fin  de  Siecle,  58. 

Giffbrd,  103. 
Guests  at  Yale,  1 6. 

Hand  of  Lincoln,  The,  5. 
Harebell,  48. 
Hebe,  24. 


Helen  Keller,  39. 
Huntington  House,  89. 

Inscriptions,  94. 
Jamaica,  162. 
Kennst  Du  ?  141. 

La  Source,  155. 

Liberty  Enlightening  the  World, 
119. 

Martinique  Idyl,  192. 
Morgan,  181. 
Mors  Benefica,  52. 
Music  at  Home,  3. 

Nocturne,  8. 

Old  Picture-Dealer,  The,  18. 
On  a  Great  Man  Whose    Mind 

is  clouding,  115. 
On  the  Death    of  an    Invincible 

Soldier,  116. 
On  White  Carnations  Given  Me 

for  My  Birthday,  54. 

Panama,  190. 

Pilgrims,  The,  51. 

Portrait    d'une   Dame  Espagnole, 

4i- 
Proem  to  a  Victorian  Anthology, 

53- 
Provencal  Lovers,  67. 

209 


INDEX    OF    TITLES 


Rose  and  the  Jasmine,  The,  169. 

Sargasso  Weed,  145. 
Sea  Change,  at  Kelp  Rock,  A,  43. 
SONGS  AND  BALLADS,  63-94. 
Souvenir  de  Jeunesse,  30. 
Star  Bearer,  The,  34. 

ToL.  H.  S.  159. 
Tombe  of  ye  Poet  Chaucer,  Ye, 
10. 


"  Ubi  Sunt  Qm  Ante  Nos  ? "  1 32. 


VARIOUS  POEMS,  1-62. 
Vigil,  A,  32. 

W.  W.  124. 

Wedding-Day,  The,  70. 
Witchcraft,  I.,  A.   D.    1692,  77. 
Witchcraft,    II.,   A.     D.     1884, 

79- 
World  Well  Lost,  The,  22. 

Yale    Ode    for    Commencement 
Day,  130. 


210 


(£he  fiittcrjtbt  f&rej if 

CAMBRIDGE,  MASSACHUSETTS,  U.  S.  A. 

ELECTROTYPED    AND    PRINTED    BY 

H.  O.  HOUGHTON  AND  CO. 


14  DAY  USE 

RETURN  TO  DESK  FROM  WHICH  BORROWED 
LOAN  DEPT. 

This  book  is  due  on  the  last  date  stamped  below,  or 

on  the  date  to  which  renewed. 
Renewed  books  are  subject  to  immediate  recall. 


. 


*ECD  IUD 


LD  21A-50m-8  '57 

(C8481slO)476B 


General  Library 

University  of  California 

Berkeley 


U.C.  BERKELEY  LIBRARIES 


M202985 


?J3 


THE  UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


